365 Days of Mystrade
by Karen Rhine
Summary: A writing challenge to myself: a drabble a day. No chronological order, just a peek into the lives of my favorite OTP. Establishing relationships, holidays, mundane stuff… Sexy, angsty, fun… Everything under the sun. :3 Rated M for future content.
1. Day 1: New Years

The first thing that assaulted Greg the moment he woke up was an intense headache. He groaned, shutting his eyes tight even though he'd never opened them, and tried assessing the situation. He couldn't remember the last time he'd celebrated the New Year like last night. It had meant to be a simple office party, but they all got drunk way too fast. He was trying to gather himself, figure everything out, and…

The sheets he was laying in did not feel familiar. His brow furrowed, and finally he forced his eyes open to very unfamiliar surroundings. _Oh shit_, who the fuck had he ended up going home with? You would think he was a teenager again. He glanced down at his bare torso, and caught sight of his clothes strewn across the floor, and then the umbrella in the corner.

The…umbrella?

That was Mycroft Holmes' umbrella.

His brown eyes widened and his mouth dropped. He had invited Mycroft to the party, sure, and he had been insanely surprised when the posh man had actually shown up. He'd been having really attached, intimate thoughts of the politician for a while, but had been resigned that it would never get anywhere. Except, it seemed that it had. He'd gone home with Mycroft. How much had they both had?

He was startled out of his thoughts as the man in question walked into the bedroom, holding two steaming mugs. He was wearing a dark blue robe tied tightly around his waist, and his usual perfect hair was messy with sleep, and what Greg recalled other, more fun activities. His fine eyebrows raised as they made eye contact.

"Ah, Inspector," Mycroft started, his voice smooth and yet, uncertain. "Coffee?"

Greg sat up slowly, a grin sliding onto his face. He reached out to take the drink, and shifted over as he was joined back on the bed.

"I think we're past such formalities now, don't you?" he questioned. "Please. Greg."

"Fair enough, Gregory."

Greg rolled his eyes and chuckled. He took a few sips of his coffee before setting it aside and turning to face the younger man.

"So, last night…" he started, a bit awkwardly.

"Can be as much or as little as you prefer." Mycroft had taken on his normal, guarded tone. One he used when they discussed cases or Sherlock. He was almost noticeably rigid, and he wasn't looking at him.

"Yes," the older of the two said slowly, softly. His tone was enough to make Mycroft look at him, his eyes strangely curious. "As much as I'd prefer…"

Before Mycroft had the chance to say anything more, Greg leaned in and captured his thin lips in a gentle, passionate kiss that spoke volumes for them both.


	2. Day 2: Waking Up Alone

Greg Lestrade always went to sleep with company, but he almost always woke up alone.

It was a strange thing. One he wasn't used to. You think he'd be used to it by now, but he still wasn't. When he'd been previously married, they either got up together or he was up first, making coffee or grabbing a quick bite or a shower before having to go in on a case. Now, however, he was the one waking up second.

Mycroft Holmes worked for the British government. Even after them being in a serious relationship for over two years, Greg still did not know exactly what he was responsible for. He probably would never know. He was okay with that. As a Detective Inspector, he was well aware of the need for secrets and discretion. Unfortunately, those secrets ran plenty with Mycroft. They could never converse about each other's day fully. The biggest problem was the hours, however.

Many times, Mycroft would have to go out of country, and not be back for a week or two at a time. When he was home, most of the time they would curl up together and fall asleep cozily, or collapse after a satisfying bout of sex and pass out. They would sleep in each other's arms, exchange soft kisses and cuddles, and Greg would sleep soundly.

Without fail, he would not wake up the same way. If he were lucky, Mycroft would still be in the house. There were times where he would even catch him in a half state of dress, having just been roused by his mobile not too long before with the news of having to go in. His partner would always smile sweetly at him in the dark, shush him softly, and request for him to go back to sleep with a kiss. Greg, drowsy as he was, would comply.

Greg would never complain. Not to Mycroft, anyway. He would complain to Sally over coffee on a particularly grumpy morning, or to John after a pint or two, but never to Mycroft. Not that it mattered. The man knew anyway. He always knew; he was a Holmes. He refused to complain regardless. As frustrating as it could be, he wouldn't trade his relationship with Mycroft for anything in the world.

This frustration, however, made mornings like the current one the most amazing gift on the face of the planet. When Greg woke and found himself warmer than normal, he couldn't help but smile and shift, turning into the warmth of his lover's body. Mycroft was still asleep, one pale arm slung over his waist, his face buried in his pillow. It was rare that Greg ever woke before Mycroft, and it was something he took full advantage of. Turning slowly onto his side, he gazed at the serene face next to him.

Unable to resist, he reached up and ran his fingers through Mycroft's soft, ginger hair. While it was a brief, light action, it woke the younger man up regardless. He was a light sleeper; though Greg supposed it made sense with his job and with having grown up with Sherlock as a brother. Pale, blue eyes shifted to look at him, still full of sleep, but he smiled.

"G'morning Gregory," he mumbled, his articulation not as its best while still half asleep. It was adorable, and it made Greg's own smile widen.

"Mornin'," Greg returned, scooting closer and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Don't have any worlds to save this morning?"

"Thankfully no," the elder Holmes chuckled, tightening his grip around Greg's waist and pulling them against one another.

"Yes, very thankfully." Greg didn't get the chance to laze around in bed with Mycroft much. He would take what he could get.

"I apologize, Gregory, I-"

"It's fine," Greg interrupted. He knew what Mycroft was going to apologize for, and he wasn't going to hear it. They never talked about never waking up together. They never needed to. It was part of his job, and he did good work (whatever it was), so Greg would have none of it. "Let's just enjoy it, yeah?"

"Yes. Yes, let's do just that."

Curling together, they kissed sleepily; soft, gentle, and unhurried kisses. Mycroft ran his hand up and down Greg's bare back as they kissed, before laying their heads together on the pillow and dozing in and out together.

Greg almost always woke up alone. But when he didn't, they were the best mornings he could have ever asked for.


	3. Day 3: Coffee?

It was bloody freezing. It was 2 in the morning, and it was so cold the rain was starting to turn into sleet. How Sherlock Holmes could be flitting around the crime scene as enthusiastically as he was, Greg would never know. He stood there, hands shoved in his coat pockets, head down to try and keep his face somewhat dry, his breath coming out in puffs. John stood nearby, looking even less pleased to be out. Why did the best murders have to happen in the worst conditions, he had been asked. Greg just rolled his eyes.

His scarf was tugged tightly around his neck, but it wouldn't stave off the chill enough on its own. He was bracing himself for the illness that would follow. Unfortunately, this was his job, and he was here, so he just needed to make the best of it.

Sherlock was in the middle of a lightning fast deduction, waving his hands around and pacing as he usually did, when he stopped mid-sentence and made a noise of irritated disgust. Greg looked up, brow furrowed, confused as to what had happened. He looked at Sherlock, and then twisted to follow his line of sight. Off in the distance stood a slender form under an umbrella, a drink in hand. Greg could feel his chest tighten in excitement.

"Be right back," he muttered, and made his way out of the taped off area. Back at the body, John raised an eyebrow, confused.

"What on earth?" he asked, looking to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and crouched back down in front of the corpse.

"They're shagging, obviously. It's _awful_." John made a surprised noise in his throat and gaped at the two older men, who were now standing together under the large, black umbrella.

"I always tell you to get an umbrella," Mycroft fussed at Greg, holding out the coffee he'd brought. "Coffee?"

"You're a life saver," Greg sighed, taking the hot drink and bringing it up to his lips. The relieved sigh that followed was a sinful noise, to be sure.

"You're going to be sick," the elder Holmes pointed out, raising a single eyebrow and giving him that knowing stare.

"I'll be fine," Greg waved off, even though he knew he wouldn't be.

"Come to mine tonight." It wasn't a request, not really. Mycroft Holmes hardly ever asked. Not that he ever minded.

"No idea when I'll be done…" Greg started, but he was smiling.

"Come back to mine, Gregory."

"I'd love to."

And then Mycroft did something he rarely did. Leaning in, he reached out and took hold of Greg's waist, and kissed him gently. _In public_. After a shocked, delayed moment, Greg returned the kiss, wrapping the arm not holding his coffee around the taller man's slender neck. In the distance he could hear Sherlock groaning dramatically, but he could care less. Kissing Mycroft was a heady sensation, and he wondered if he'd ever grow tired of it. They parted too soon for his preference, and Mycroft smiled at him.

"See you later," he said softly, squeezing his waist before departing. Rain started falling on Greg again, and he started to make his way back into the scene. Now, however, he was warm all over. And it wasn't just because of the coffee.


	4. Day 4: Special Delivery

Mycroft was bent over his desk, chin propped up in his hand, as he read through most documents related to the business in Korea he'd been trying to clean up all week. A half-drunk cup of tea sat next to him, his mobile next to it, which he then reached for to send out a new series of emails for their next course of action. He'd barely been home in four days. Normally, he would send Anthea to fetch him a change of clothes, but to have recently had a certain Detective Inspector move in with him, it gave him incentive to swing by the house himself.

They'd barely seen each other, and Gregory had been half asleep for when they had, since Mycroft had only been able to steal away in the middle of the night to change and refresh himself with a shower. His work was important, and they both knew of his long hours, but it was frustrating nonetheless.

A soft knock on his door pulled his attention, and he raised his head before calling out entrance. Anthea poked her head in, and he wondered if she was bringing more tea or papers, but the smirk on her face instantly told him otherwise. Leaning back in his chair, Mycroft arched an eyebrow curiously.

"Delivery for you, sir," she said, before turning her attention right back to the Blackberry she was never seen without. She pushed the door open further and a man in a suit walked into the office. Mycroft's sharp eyes widened as he took in the sight of the vase in the man's hand, not straying from it even as it was placed on an empty spot on his desk. The man left immediately, and Anthea remained a moment longer to look on in amusement before leaving as well.

Mycroft continued to stare. What on Earth…? Leaning forward, he shifted papers to the side so he could pull it closer. It was a mixture of red and white roses, with Queen Anne's Lace put in throughout. It was an…impressive bouquet, to be sure. He'd never gotten anything like this before in his life. His keen nose picked up the scent immediately; fresh, of course. Of course, he could tell by the look alone, but the smell confirmed it. He admired it for a moment before reaching out to pluck the card off it's plastic stand. He knew exactly who sent it, but he wanted to see the message regardless.

'_Miss you. Come home to me soon. –GL'_

A simple message, but one that made an uncharacteristically wide grin slide onto Mycroft's face. He regarded the assortment a moment longer before reaching for his mobile and dialing the only number he used more than his little brother's.

"Hello?" came that rough voice on the other end.

"Gregory Lestrade," he began, unable to keep the amusement out of his smooth voice. "What an elaborate way to request my presence."

"Thought you'd appreciate it," the older man returned, equally amused. "Wanted to get your attention."

"Oh believe me, you've had my attention since the day we met, Gregory."

A hum from his partner. It was true, and Mycroft had no problem admitting it to him.

"So…. Will you be home soon?" came the next question, almost more timidly. Mycroft regarded his work, letting his smile fall away. He peered at the papers in front of him before gazing back at the roses.

"I will. Tonight, if everything goes well."

"I hope so."

"Me as well, my darling. After all, I need to properly thank you for such a lovely, romantic gesture."

"Promise?" The amused tone was back, mixed with something more intimate. It sent a chill down Mycroft's spine.

"_Promise_," he returned, his voice lowering seductively.


	5. Day 5: Exercising

**WARNING: This drabble contains minor spoilers for the new episode of series 3, The Sign of Three. It revolves around a Mycroft scene. It's a very minor scene that has little to do with the focus of the episode, but I wanted to give everyone a heads up regardless, just in case you were avoiding anything related to the episode.**

The only sound that filled the room was the pounding of Mycroft's feet on the rubber belt beneath him, and his soft pants echoing in the small room. He ran to think. He ran to distract himself. Hands balled in loose fists, his arms swung at his sides as he ran, a soft sheen of sweat having formed across his forehead and the back of his neck.

_You're fat. Been gaining the pounds back again, I see. One too many cakes after tea, Mycroft?_

His little brother's words echoed in his head, taunting him. It was ridiculous. Mycroft had so many other things to concern himself with in his life; his body image was low on the list. For the most part, anyway. Every now and again the insecurity would resurface itself, and while he kept it well hidden to everyone else, he'd be lying to himself to say it didn't bother him.

And so he ran.

He was unsure how much time had passed, but as a low ache began to settle into his thighs and his breathing became harsher, he began to wonder just how long he'd been running for. Across the room, his mobile chirped with a new email, so he decided it would be best to call it quits. Walking across the room, he grabbed a towel and wiped his face, and then draped it across his neck as he read the correspondence.

He was in the middle of typing a reply and coordinating with Anthea when he heard his front door open and close. He stiffened, immediately on the alert, but the telling footsteps reminded him it was just Gregory Lestrade. He'd given the man a key to his place after a particularly intimate weekend, though he rarely dropped by unannounced. His initial excitement gave way to quick panic as he realized the state he was in. There was no time to disguise it, however, so he decided against trying and headed out to meet him.

"Gregory," he greeted as soon as he saw the older man. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Instead of a response, he got a curious look from those deep brown eyes the Detective Inspector had. He opened his mouth to say something about his appearance, but realized he didn't quite have anything to say.

"Are you…" he finally started, his rough voice intrigued. "Are you working out?"

The track pants, trainers, and workout shirt made the answer to that question a dead giveaway, so Mycroft didn't think it was worth an actual response. He huffed, glancing back at his phone again, strangely embarrassed and frustrated that the other man was seeing him like this. When he looked up, however, Gregory was standing right in front of him, his eyes a soft expression.

"Gregory?" he started to ask.

"You look fine, Mycroft," the older man pointed out. Mycroft rolled his eyes and let out a huff through his nose. This, in turn, caused Gregory to reach up and cup his cheek, pulling his face back so that they were looking at one another again. He had a mischievous grin on his face that sent a spark of heat through the politician.

"Let me give you a better reason to be covered in sweat," Gregory whispered deeply, having pressed flush against Mycroft's taller body and whispering into his ear. A soft sound escaped Mycroft's throat in the split second he decided to take the Inspector up on his offer. Grabbing the older man's wrist, he tugged him out of the foyer and up towards his bedroom, smirking the entire way.


	6. Day 6: The Eleventh Hour

**WARNING: Like the previous day's drabble, this one also has _minor_ spoilers for series 3 episode two, The Sign of Three. I just… This episode gave me a lot of feelings and a lot of inspiration. So I just wanted to give everyone another heads up. :)**

Walking away from the smiling bride – because _really_, Mary was smiling way too much, wedding day or not – Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket and began wandering down the reception area. His sharp eyes were on everybody, all the time, and the lingered for a moment longer on Inspector Lestrade. While everyone around him was mingling and moving, he was sitting with a beer in his hand, looking at no one in particular. Interesting. Sticking his other hand in his pocket, he dialed the number (almost reluctantly), and waited.

"Yes, what, Sherlock?" came the voice on the other end, panting softly.

"Why are you out of breath?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he slid in and out of bodies.

"_Filing_," came Mycroft's snarky remark.

"You've been working out again," Sherlock continued, ignoring his brother's attempts to dodge the conversation. He grimaced dramatically at no one in particular. That, corresponding with Lestrade's current state, suddenly made all the sense in the world. The final piece clicked into place, forming the solution to his puzzle.

"What do you want?" Mycroft sounded more irritated than normal, and already Sherlock could see the crease in his brow at his frown. Sherlock began pacing back and fourth at the edge of the room.

"I need your answer Mycroft. It's a matter of urgency."

"Answer?"

"Even at the eleventh hour, it's not too late, you know." His voice was hinting, knowing at what was going on. There was silence, followed by a sigh at the other end.

"Oh lord," Mycroft groaned. "Today. It's today, isn't it?" Sherlock hummed during his brother's pause, before he could continue. "No, Sherlock. I will not be coming to the _night do_, as you so poetically put it."

"What a shame." Turning, his sharp pale eyes landed on John and Mary at the head of the room, before migrating back to the form of Lestrade sitting at the table. The man was on his second – no, third – beer of the afternoon, and the reception had barely begun.

"John and Mary will be delighted to find I am not hanging around," Mycroft said after a moment. Sherlock made a knowing snort, and he just knew the older Holmes was rolling his eyes at the sound of it.

"John and Mary weren't quite who I had in mind," Sherlock said finally. He was met with silence. It was a different kind of silence; not Mycroft's usual, all-knowing, mocking silence. He thought it intriguing how they could read each other's silences, when most people could barely read each other as they spoke, but such was the life of the Holmes men, he supposed.

"It's none of your business." Defensive. Definitely an argument, then.

"He's on his third beer already."

Why Sherlock cared, he couldn't quite explain. It stemmed from that same train of thought that caused him to mention the fact that Mycroft was lonely. Except… he wasn't all that alone. At least, not for now. He was walking on thin ice with his "goldfish", as it were, and for some reason Sherlock didn't want that happening. He thought of the parallels between him and his brother (much as he loathe to admit it most of the time), and he thought of the parallels between John and Lestrade. Sure, things were changing between him and John. John was getting married. That, however, was a whole other scale of emotions he was desperately not trying to focus on right now. John had been good for him. He had the feeling Lestrade would be good for Mycroft; if Mycroft didn't muck it all up as he was currently doing.

"The eleventh hour is not too late," he repeated, continuing once he registered that Mycroft was not going to be the one to break this current silence. "However, once it hits 12:01, things change."

"What is it with your sudden obsession with my personal life, Sherlock?" his older brother asked, his voice snappish and just a bit sorrowful.

"Just… He's your John. Do not jump off this building, Mycroft. You might not like what you find when you return two years later."

He hung up the phone before Mycroft could get out another word. He was annoyed with himself for voicing the comparison, for showing his brother the weakness he would no doubt pick up on. Sighing through his nose, he began to make his way back towards the front, where he would no doubt be forced into his speech before long.

Mycroft sighed, his head falling back against his chair as his arm fell limp at his side. He turned his mobile over in contemplation at what was said. As usual, Sherlock knew too much without knowing anything at all. That didn't make him wrong. Amazing how two years away could make him so much more perceptive to this kind of thing.

Gregory had wanted him there. He'd asked him to go. Mycroft had refused. They'd been involved with one another for three months now, and yet it seemed neither of them truly knew how to classify it. Something about an official date at a social gathering such as a wedding caused him to seclude into himself and immediately refuse the older man. They hadn't spoken since then. They'd not even shared so much as a single text in four days.

He sat there for a moment more, before glancing at his mobile again. The eleventh hour wasn't too late. Should he? He chewed at his bottom lip, a bad habit that was his only tell when something bothered him, before forcing himself out of the chair and towards the shower. Perhaps, if he planned things out the right way and executed it precisely, he could salvage this. He wanted to salvage this. He only hoped, in his insecurities, that Gregory would forgive him.


	7. Day 7: Freckles

Sighing with what had to be a stupid grin on his face, Greg rolled over on the large bed, bumping into the tall man lying next to him. Mycroft was on his stomach, arms crossed underneath his head, eyes closed. They were relaxing in post-coital bliss, and hadn't gotten out of bed all day. It had been quite a feat convincing the politician to stay in bed and not get dressed, but he was very pleased with the results. Luckily, his big brown eyes came into play and made it a lot more convincing. It was a dangerous weapon that he knew how to wield well.

Their sudden contact had Mycroft opening one pale eye, a smile sliding onto his face. He was beautiful. Reaching over, Greg slid a hand down the smooth canvas of his back, from shoulder blade to hip, before stopping and just gazing. How had he gotten so lucky? He couldn't quite sort out how someone plain and rough like him could attract the eye of the smartest, most elegant man he had ever known to exist. Mycroft could have anyone, and yet he chose _him_.

Pushing himself up with an elbow, he slid one of his legs in between the other man's and leaned close, kissing him on the back. A soft hum emitted from him in response. Lifting his head, his eyes ran across the expanse of bare back, up on his shoulders, where he paid close attention to the decoration of freckles all across the pale skin. Practically crawling on top of him, Greg began to kiss the spots on Mycroft's shoulders, moving from one to the other.

"Gregory, what are you doing?" the younger man asked, an amused hint in his voice. Greg grinned in between kisses.

"Kissing your freckles, of course," he mumbled, his lips brushing across skin as he spoke.

"_Gregory_…"

Greg lifted his head at the sound in his lover's voice, blinking. He moved enough so that they were looking at each other, and there was an odd expression on Mycroft's face. It wasn't the first time he'd seen it, though. It reminded him of the expression he would adopt after being goaded by Sherlock, usually about his weight. His eyebrows rose.

"Myc?" he questioned. He got a soft sigh in return.

"Honestly Gregory, out of all the things about me, you cannot possibly like those."

Greg blinked the statement. Was Mycroft self conscious about his freckles? It certainly seemed so… Without another word, he crawled back to his previous position and leaned down to start kissing the freckles again, moving to the center of his back and down a little. Mycroft made a small noise in his throat, but said nothing.

"I… _love_ your freckles…" he said in between kisses, continuing to make his way across and down his back. "And to prove it to you… I'm going to kiss… Every. Single. One."

"An impossible task, to be certain," the younger man snorted. Greg shook his head in response and continued to kiss. He'd shifted down on the bed, down at the small of his back now. His hands moved as well, now holding onto the outside of Mycroft's thighs. He made it to his waist, and while the freckles were scarce here, continued to kiss. His tongue slipped out to drag along the very top of his arse, earning a very delicious groan from Mycroft.

"Gregory," he said again, his voice different. Almost… needy?

"While I'm down here…?" he asked suggestively. Mycroft's hips rose ever so slightly.

"Yes. _Please._"

Greg grinned widely, feeling a bit mischievous. "Well," he spoke softly. "How could I resist such good manners?"


	8. Day 8: Hot-Headed Silver Fox

"**Goddamnit!**" Greg shouted, kicking the edge of his desk forcefully, causing the furniture to shift and things on the desk to fall over. Including his coffee mug. Which still had coffee in it. That promptly fell onto the floor where it would no doubt stain. The Detective Inspector could care less, however, and began pacing the floor in irritation.

"Sir-" Sally Donovan attempted to start, but he was having none of it.

"We _almost_ had them. We had bloody evidence, for Christ's sake! How is this still happening?!" he continued to scream, waving his hands up in the air in annoyance. He was getting reamed by his superior for not nailing down this case yet, and his last resort could _be bothered_, because it wasn't above a six. He was to the point of begging and still could not convince Sherlock to help. He paced again before stopping to kick at his desk, causing Donovan to jump and sigh.

"Go home, Greg," she started to fuss. He glared at her, and she put her hands up defensively. "Go home, take a breather, and get your head sorted. Then you can come back."

"We're still missing something," he said through clenched teeth. Walking back to his side of the desk, he threw open the case file and began looking through things again. "There's something… Something that can tie everything together. The missing piece. We just need to fucking find it."

"You won't find it if you continue being pissed off," Donovan finally snapped. "Go home. Calm down. Come back. Maybe even try convincing the freak again."

Greg glared at her again at calling Sherlock a freak. Names like that had never gotten them anywhere. Apart from that, however, she was right. He couldn't sort evidence with the hot head he was sporting. It was a poor trait of his that he'd always had. When he got mad, he got mad quick. Sighing, he snatched his mobile and car keys.

"I'll be back in a few hours."

He was aware the truth of that statement was a bit rare. He was aware of it as he sat in the kitchen a few hours later with a scotch in his hand. It wasn't his first scotch either, so going back to the Yard this evening was getting slimmer and slimmer. Besides, he was still angry. To say his career was riding on this case was boarding on the dramatic; after all, he highly doubted he would actually lose his job if they didn't nail these guys. Still… It was a big deal. Greg was under so much pressure.

And Sherlock bloody Holmes couldn't be bothered to help.

He was stewing in all these thoughts, drinking his scotch, so he didn't happen to hear the front door opening and closing nearby. Anger flared up in him again and, after downing the last of his drink, slammed the glass down. If it weren't for the instant stinging in his hand, accompanied by moisture, he barely would have realized that he'd slammed the glass down a bit too hard. Wide brown eyes went down to the counter and he hissed, turning his hand to better see where broken glass had cut into his skin.

"Gregory?" came a smooth voice, alert and full of concern. Swift steps echoed down the hallway and soon Mycroft came into view, still holding his coat and umbrella. Greg blinked, looked up at his lover, and then back down at his bleeding hand.

"I-" he started, but already the sharp-eyed politician was in action. He dropped his coat and umbrella with a carelessness that was immensely uncommon for him and strode over to the sink to wet a cloth. Then, he was immediately at his side, gently grabbing his injured hand, and pressing the cloth against it. Greg flinched, feeling another sting moving through him, and looked up at Mycroft's questioning gaze.

"It's this case," he sighed bitterly, holding his forehead in his unhurt hand.

"They were sent free again." It wasn't a question. It never was. Greg nodded. "Was it worth breaking a glass for?"

"If your _fucking_ brother would help, I wouldn't still be dealing with the damn thing," he snapped heatedly. When he looked up again, the previously concerned look had turned stern. Mycroft was all but glaring at him.

"Gregory, you need to stop shouting," he said, his voice crisp and borderline cold. Greg frowned and stared down at their joined hands, watching the younger man still tending to his wound even as they almost began fussing at each other. He sighed again.

"This case is driving me mental," he frowned. So much so, he was about to get into a fight with his partner. He really did need to calm down. He looked back up after a moment. "Sorry Myc, I-"

"It's alright, Gregory." The voice was affectionate again. Bending his head, Mycroft leaned in for a soft kiss. "Let me tend to your wound and we can retire to the bedroom, okay? And you can talk me through it. Let me help, if my tedious brother will not."

Greg managed his first smile of the day, and nodded.

"What would I do without you?" he sighed as they walked together through the house. Mycroft chuckled.

"Probably would've killed yourself by now, darling."


	9. Day 9: The Beach

**This one is NSFW, and a reason I rated the story as a whole M. It's not as detailed as I've gotten before, but there are definitely sexy times. ;)  
****Also, thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far. You guys are awesome and make me feel all fuzzy inside. ^_^**

The warm breeze that brushed by was calming, and a rather nice contrast to the normal cold London air. Mycroft reclined back on the blanket that had been spread out, sighing happily, and crossing his ankles. He was not one to spend time at a beach – it was not as if his complexion really allowed for it anyway – but it was the first vacation he and Gregory had been able to take together, so there was nothing unpleasant about it. So long as the sunscreen remained on and he stayed under the shadows of the umbrella he was laying under, his skin wouldn't suffer too bad.

Grinning, his partner made his way over to him across the sand. He propped himself up on his elbows and removed his sunglasses, gazing up at the older man. Gregory had become quite sun-soaked, tanning his already lovely skin.

"Shall we head back?" he prompted, as the other man got onto his knees in front of him, relaxing. They would have a delicious dinner awaiting them, or even just some time relaxing in their room, after showering off the remains of sand and lotion and ocean water.

Gregory shook his head, his grin changing feeling, and Mycroft raised his eyebrows. The older man all but crawled on top of him, leaning in for a heated kiss. He responded instantly, returning the kiss in kind, and reached up to thread his fingers through soft, silver hair. His partner's tongue slid against his lips, requesting entrance that Mycroft quickly granted, and he gasped into his mouth as their crotches rubbed against one another.

"Gregory…" he started against his lips, breathlessly. The older man was beginning to tug at his shorts and stroke his skin, which felt amazing, but sent a small alarm off in his head. "Gregory, we're in public," he weakly protested, panting slightly, face flushed.

"Private beach," he was reminded, Gregory's words deep and rough. It sent shivers down his spine to hear his voice in such a state. He gripped tighter at the back of his head as a hand slipped inside of his shorts and deft fingers began stroking his erection. He shuddered.

"Yes, but," he started again, trying to think of a good reason. Unfortunately, his brain wasn't functioning at its highest capacity currently, and the fact that they _were_ on a beach sent a thrill through him. Private, yes, so there was no one around that could see them. But still technically public. There was something so… _naughty_ about it. Almost risky.

"Trust me, Myc," Gregory breathed, gazing down at him affectionately. Mycroft knew he wouldn't press it if he truly didn't want him to. Thing was, though, he did want him to. So he nodded slightly, and in that moment, their clothing was shifted and that hand that was teasing him was immediately wrapped around both of them. Mycroft shouted out, and then yanked Gregory down to muffle the shout with a desperate kiss, rocking and panting until they reached release together.

"That was… insane…." Mycroft panted afterwards, as they lay sprawled on the blanket together. Next to him, Gregory chuckled, nuzzling his jaw gently.

"Best vacation ever," the older man whispered, grinning. Mycroft couldn't help but nod. Yes, it truly was.


	10. Day 10: A Bit of Worship

"You should wear shorts more often."

Mycroft opened an eye and looked beside him where Gregory lay with an adorable, contagious grin on his face. He let out of a huff of a chuckle, eyeing him curiously.

"And what reason would that be for, Gregory?" he asked softly, curling a bit closer to the warm body next to him. His lover really did say some of the strangest things while he was still recovering from their intimate activities. He watched as the older man propped himself up on his elbows and gaze over at him.

"Your _legs_, Myc," he prompted, his brown eyes shifting down to stare at them. Mycroft felt a self-conscious pang and his cheeks flushed with embarrassed heat.

"Honestly, Gregory. Not in my line of work." There's no way he would be caught dead wearing anything other than his tailored suits. Even his 'casual wear' was dressier than most people's formal wear.

"Around here, then," he said, his voice almost a whine.

"I don't understand why-" he started, but faded off as he was suddenly lying on his own. He watched as Gregory moved down the bed and got in between his legs. Instantly, he moved to prop himself up, his eyebrows shooting up.

Instead of going for what he assumed the older man was wanting to jump back into (which would normally be ridiculous but for two older men they had rather active libidos it seemed), Gregory grabbed onto one of his legs gently and pulled it up to sit his ankle on his shoulder. Turning his head, he began pressing kisses to his calf. The kisses were slow and affectionate, and he was clearly taking his time. He could feel every curve of those wonderful lips on his skin. Why, Mycroft couldn't quite figure out. He watched, trying to figure out the obsession. His legs were nothing special. In fact, they were rather scrawny, pale, and twiggy. Mycroft honestly almost hated them more than he did his midsection. Yet the other man seemed enthralled by them.

"They're gorgeous," Gregory whispered against his skin, running his hand along the outside, over his ankle, and up his thigh. Mycroft couldn't hold back the content sigh that escaped him, and he rested back into the mattress. It was all very soothing; he had to admit. "You've no idea, Myc. No idea how lovely they are."

"Mmmm… I'm beginning to get the idea," he muttered in return, feeling a flutter in his chest. "But feel free to continue showing me." Only Gregory had ever had him feel like this. He felt cared for, and loved, with the Detective Inspector. There were no ulterior motives here, no end game, and no lies.

He almost let out a soft noise of protest when his leg was lowered back onto the bed, but it turned into a smile when all Gregory did was shift to his other leg. He started the same, slow kissing routine as he'd done on the first, and Mycroft sighed happily. Yes, he would let Gregory praise his legs all he desired if he got to feel like this.

The kisses made their way up to his knee, straying further than he had done on the other leg, causing the comforting feeling to get a little more heated. Mycroft opened his piercing blue eyes and gazed down at the man in front of him. Their eyes locked in silent communication, and that infectious, mischievous grin returned to Gregory's face. Mycroft mirrored it.

"What?" he asked, almost lightheartedly, his heart rate escalating. Gregory chuckled.

"Nothing, love." Straightening his back again, he continued his kissing routine, as well as massaging his calves gently. Mycroft let his eyes flutter closed, and he just enjoyed the sensations. If he desired to put a name to it, he would say that Gregory seemed to be worshipping his legs a bit. It was… nice. He prayed he would never want to stop.


	11. Day 11: Caring Is Not An Advantage

It still felt strange having a key to Gregory's flat. Not that Mycroft had ever been kept out before that, but nonetheless, having a copy of the key carried a different weight to it. It shouldn't, and it was irrational to think that way. But it was. He was currently putting that key to good use, to surprise the older man. He'd gotten back three days early from his business trip to Korea, and had purposely not told him in the hopes to see the way his face lit up in shock and excitement.

Quietly, he shut the door behind him, but paused in the front room, furrowing his brow. It immediately felt different. He listened to the noises within the flat, and found he heard two voices. One, the deep rasp of Gregory's, and the other… A woman. He blinked, pressing him lips together in a thin line, and took a cautious step forward, listening.

"Greg, it's been really hard this past year," the woman was sighing. Her voice had a particularly mournful quality to it that was, frankly, overdramatic and insincere.

"Christina…" he heard Gregory sigh in return. Mycroft's eyes widened and he froze. _His ex wife?_ Why was she here, of all places? He heard a shift, and through a slant of sight in the walls, saw the woman leaning very much into Gregory's personal space. Her hands were on his legs, face angling towards his, as if to-

Mycroft backed up. His mind had gone blank, which left him uncomfortable and almost panicked. Spinning on his heel, he started to make a quick exit, only to realize he'd made noise and there was a pair of footsteps behind him.

"Myc?!" Gregory's voice came, definitely surprised, and almost horrified. Mycroft froze and shut his eyes, sighing, before craning his neck to look back at him.

"I got back early," he said, his voice frigid. It had to be. He had to be in control. "But I see my presence is no longer desired. Good day, Inspector."

He couldn't bear to say his name. He left immediately, ignoring the beginnings of protest from the other man. He ducked into his car and ordered to be driven home promptly. He needed a scotch.

He had been fooling himself, thinking a relationship between them would work. Of course Gregory would want her back; they had so much history together. What was he? A secretive, intelligent individual that couldn't stand _people_. There was no contest. He tried ignoring his phone as it rang in his pocket, knowing who it was. By the time he'd arrived home and poured his scotch, his phone had rang twice and beeped with new text messages five times.

Sitting in his chair and sipping the drink, he finally pulled it out to read them.

_Please answer your phone. –GL_

_Come back. Please. –GL _

_Mycroft please, let me explain. Answer your phone. –GL_

_It's not what you think it is, really. I swear to you. –GL_

_I love you. Please talk to me. Call me. Please. –GL _

Mycroft sighed, scrolling through the messages more than once. Part of him wanted to. He wanted to be rational about this, and hear all the facts, like he always did. However, he was feeling very… irrational. Upset. How could he have thought that their relationship could have seriously lasted? It was a ridiculous notion.

He gazed at the words on his bright screen for what had to be way too long. Without replying, he finally set his phone down and put his attention back to his scotch. He was certainly **not** on the verge of tears. Old words of his had never been proven more correct.

Caring was definitely not an advantage.


	12. Day 12: Or Perhaps It Is

**I had quite a few responses wanting a sequel of sorts to yesterday's drabble. There was no way I could resist. :3**

Mycroft wasn't answering his phone. Not since… Greg sighed in frustration. His damn ex-wife was still managing to fuck things up in his life. She had come over, begging to be taken back, getting all up in his personal space and trying to make a move. It was desperate, annoying, and most of all, he saw right through it. She had no intention of salvaging their relationship, not really. No doubt he was just a comfort zone for her that she would continue to cheat around with other people, as long as she could come home to Mr. Dependable.

He wasn't having it. He'd kicked her out the minute his boyfriend left, and he wished he'd done so the moment she had weaseled her way into his flat. Now things were royally screwed. He didn't know anymore exactly how many text messages he'd left Mycroft over the past 24 hours, and he knew he was bordering on desperate, but he didn't care. He couldn't let Christina ruin this too. She'd ruined too much in his life, and just now was he putting the pieces back together successfully.

Pacing back and fourth, Greg lingered outside of Mycroft's front door. What was he waiting for? There was a chance the younger man wasn't home, sure, but it was a chance he needed to take. He needed to see him, needed to explain… Finally, with a deep breath, he walked up and rang the doorbell.

Nothing. Greg shifted his weight from one foot to the other and waited a moment. Still nothing. Squaring his shoulders, he lifted his hand to ring the bell again, just as he heard a lock being undone from the inside. His heart leapt up in his chest, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. The door opened, and he was looking at his boyfriend now. He was dressed in one of his dark, pinstripe suits, all but the jacket and his shoes on. Surprise showed on Mycroft's face before fading away to his politician's mask.

"Gregory," he commented rigidly. Greg tried not to wince at the tone, and he took a step forward. He didn't force himself inside the house, though Mycroft did not take any steps back like he was preparing for.

"Can I come in?" he asked, praying for an affirmative answer. Silence. Mycroft shut his eyes for a moment before letting out a curt nod, and finally turned to the side to allow him entry.

They made their way to the kitchen, Mycroft going over to his stovetop and boiling some water for tea. He was always a good host, no matter the situation. Or maybe he was just trying to busy himself and avoid him. Greg walked over to the island counter and leaned on it a bit.

"Look, I need to-"

"There's no need, Gregory. She was your wife. No matter her deceptions, the two of you had a connection for many years that I couldn't begin to compete with. It would've never worked for us. I only wish I would have seen so earlier to allow us to avoid this tense situation."

Greg ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration.

"For being the smartest man I've ever met, you are rather bloody dense," he muttered with a frown. Mycroft turned, an eyebrow raised.

"Pardon?" He was asking for clarification. That was certainly rare. Greg pushed off the island and walked over to Mycroft. This time, the younger man did take a step back, but it pressed his back against the counter behind him. Greg looked up at him stubbornly.

"She was trying to weasel her way back in. It was obvious, even to me. How did you not pick up on it?" he asked, genuinely confused. That caused an unsettling expression to show on Mycroft's face, one of confusion on his end as well.

"I saw…"

"Her trying to come on to me, yes. You didn't stick around enough to see my actual reaction. Myc…" He reached out and pressed a hand flat to his chest. Icy eyes darted down to the contact, and then back up to his face. "Myc, I love _you_. I would never throw this away for that crazy woman."

"Gregory…"

He got no further. Greg closed the space between them and leaned up, pressing their lips together in a tender, incredibly honest kiss. It wasn't reciprocated, not at first. But after a moment, two slender hands reached up and grasped at his biceps, their lips finally molding into each other in an almost desperation. They kissed until neither of them could breathe, and only then did they part.

"I didn't think…"

"Clearly not," Greg chuckled, a bit breathless. He glanced at the stovetop for a second, and then up at Mycroft again. "Sod the tea," he almost growled. "I need to take you to bed now."

"Christ, Gregory, _yes_."


	13. Day 13: It's Your Name

"Oh behave, Myc," Mummy Holmes fussed in exhaustion as the two of them exchanged oddly tense words with one another. Tense on Mycroft's part, anyway.

"_Mycroft_ is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end," the man snapped, a sarcastic smile plastered on his face. His mum didn't look particularly offended, more exasperated and disapproving, but she left it at that. Greg watched the exchange in silence, and as Mummy Holmes went to carry a basket into the living room, he stood as well. His movement caught the younger man's eye and he raised an eyebrow. "Gregory?"

"Outside?" he requested softly. He didn't wait for an answer before heading outside, pulling out his cigarettes, and lighting one up. After a moment, Mycroft joined him, and Greg fished out another cigarette to give him. His boyfriend hummed in appreciation and lit up as well.

"Dun need to be so rough on her," Greg said after a moment. "Your mum is a lovely lady."

The Holmes parents had been **nothing** that he had expected when meeting them, and he was still a bit flabbergasted. It was with amusement that he had no idea how Mycroft and Sherlock turned out the way they were with parents just as ordinary as his own.

"She's insufferable," Mycroft sighed, taking a long drag of the smoke he'd been given. Greg rolled his eyes and smiled. Parents always were, he supposed.

"If you hate Myc so much, why do you always let me call you that?" he asked curiously. With the way he'd snapped at his mother, it started to make it a bit clearer why he insisted on calling him Gregory. Given names and all. It took a little bit before he was given a response.

"You're different."

Also not what he expected. Greg looked at him in amusement.

"Different, am I?"

"Of course you are, Gregory, honestly." Now he was awarded with the long-suffering Mycroft Holmes gaze. "You're different. You're my exception. It sounds rubbish, but you are."

"It doesn't sound rubbish," Greg replied softly, his eyes glowing with affection. He shifted closer to wrap an arm around Mycroft's waist and rest his head on his shoulder as they smoked in silence. He truly was Mycroft's exception, and he was fine with that. More than fine, actually. He was the exception to everything the politician had carved out for himself in life. Otherwise, they would not be as they were.

"So you really don't mind me calling you Myc?" he asked again after a moment. Mycroft dropped his cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out with the heel of his shoe and chuckled.

"It's just a name, Gregory," he sighed, smiling softly.

"But it's _your_ name," Greg countered, lifting his head again. He looked up at the younger man. "And it's important to me, yeah?"

Mycroft said nothing. Instead, he cupped Greg's cheek with a slender hand and leaned in, kissing him gently. They both tasted of menthol, and Greg nuzzled closer in the kiss, wrapping both arms around his body now. Time slipped away when they kissed, and his head pounded in ways it never had before him.

"Boys, it's almost time for lunch!" they heard Mummy Holmes call from inside the house. "You'd do well to stop giving the neighbors a free show, you know!"

They broke apart, Greg beet red at the comment. He cleared his throat and Mycroft just looked amused.

"Well, ah…" he started, glancing around to see if anyone had in fact been watching. It didn't seem so. Though, other houses home didn't really surround the Holmes family, so the chance was rather slim. Mycroft reached out and drug his nails gently across Greg's scalp.

"She's messing with you, darling. I told you, she's insufferable."

"Well, I think she's lovely, Myc."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but the smile did not leave his face. "I am aware."


	14. Day 14: Playing In The Snow

"C'mere," Greg nodded, reaching out and grabbing Mycroft's hand as they were walking back up to their home. They'd just gotten done with a fabulous dinner, over which it had started to snow, and he was feeling much like a small child. He was bubbling with excitement and he could tell that Mycroft had no idea why.

"Alright," the younger man said softly, with a hint of amusement, as he took the offered hand. Grinning, Greg turned away from where they were heading to the door and started to lead them around to the backyard. He got close to breaking out in a run, grinning, and finally let go of his lover so he could reach down and scoop up a ball of snow.

"Gregory, what are you-" Mycroft started, but came to a halt as a cold ball of snow slammed into his chest. He arched an eyebrow as Greg started giggling.

"Come on Myc," he giggled, scooping down to grab more snow. "Never played in the snow before?"

He reared his arm back and chucked the second snowball, getting him in the shoulder. Some of the snow got on his neck and slipped inside his suit, causing him to shiver a bit.

"No Gregory, I have not. And why would I want to, it's _cold_," the politician said, trying to brush the wetness off.

"Just give it a try, eh?" Greg giggled, moving to get more snow. Sighing, Mycroft gave in, reaching down to get some himself. He darted forward, chucking it as he moved, and hit Greg in the face. "Oyyyy!" came the shouted response.

Suddenly, they were both moving. Colliding into each other, they fell into the snow, laughing and rolling and grabbing snow to shove in each other's faces. It got in their hair, in their coats, up the legs of their trousers. Finally, Greg had Mycroft on his back, pinning him down and straddling his waist lightly. They were both still laughing, until within seconds of each other, they faded off and just stared at each other.

Mycroft's face was flushed and his eyes were shining, his hair wet and messy. He was beautiful. Had anyone ever seen him like this, or was Greg alone? He hoped that he was. This was an honored privilege that he would treasure forever. Reaching up, Mycroft was running a gloved hand through Greg's hair, brushing some snow out of it. Suddenly giving into the urge that was nagging at him, he leaned down and started kissing Mycroft sweetly. The grip on the back of his head tightened and the kiss deepened.

"Gregory, perhaps we should…" Mycroft started against his lips, but was cut off again as he reinitiated the intense kiss. Soon, they were panting and gripping at each other's clothing, and Greg started to move his kisses down to the younger man's jaw and neck. His pale skin was a mixture of hot and cold; cold from the snow with heat right underneath. It was a comforting warmth that Greg sought out often, going into overdrive because of the snow and because both men were becoming quite aroused. Mycroft made a tiny noise in the back of his throat that intensified when Greg rocked his hips down against him.

"Gregory!" Mycroft gasped. That sound made Greg's blood boil. How was it they could be soaking wet and covered in snow on a cold night in London, and for him to be burning up so much? The shiver that went through his body was definitely not due to their surroundings, and he gripped at Mycroft's shoulders almost desperately.

"Y-yeah, Myc," he panted, pulling back slightly.

"Let's go inside," he all but growled. The noise sent a more intense shiver through Greg. "We need to get in front of the fire and…and out of these clothes. B-before we catch cold."

"Is that the only reason you want to get out of these clothes?" Greg asked, his voice deep. He arched an eyebrow curiously, and found himself yanked down into another heated kiss. This time, Mycroft was the one to rock his hips, and Greg whimpered slightly.

"No," he whispered against Greg's lips. "Definitely not."


	15. Day 15: The Umbrella

Mycroft smiled politely as he stepped into Gregory's office, causing the older man to glance up from the paperwork that was undoubtedly driving him insane. The look of pleased surprise was enough to cause the politician to grin in a way hardly anyone got the privilege of experiencing.

"Mycroft!" Gregory greeted, standing and walking over to him. Mycroft reached out his hand on instinct, but was instead pulled into a brief hug that made his stomach flip. It really was insane the amount of care he felt for the older man. "What brings you by?"

"Well," he started, shifting his umbrella from one hand to the other. "You've been holed up in here all day. I thought some fresh air would be good for you. And some lunch. So, please allow me to treat you, Gregory."

The man agreed almost instantly, which Mycroft had been hoping for. The two of them hadn't been able to see each other much the past week, due to obligations both of their occupations required. Gregory went to grab his mobile and jacket, and then walked back over and pulled Mycroft in for a kiss. He returned it happily, his free hand coming up to rest on his bicep, before pulling away.

"Come," he requested, and they left the room together. They strode through Scotland Yard and finally outside, where his car was waiting. The drive was short, and out they were again, heading for a small bakery that excelled in their lunch menu. Their timing was perfect, as Mycroft had managed to ensure, and it wasn't long before they were sitting and eating.

"Man, this is hitting the spot. How do you do that, Myc?" Gregory asked. Mycroft blinked, looking up from the sandwich he had ordered.

"Do what?" he questioned, quirking an eyebrow.

"Know exactly what I need."

Mycroft smirked, setting the sandwich down and drinking from his tea.

"Gregory, it is my business to know these things," he said with an amused tone in his voice. The other man just grinned, and returned to his fish and chips for a moment. He hummed again, signaling another question he had thought of, but thankfully finished chewing before attempting it.

"Also, I've been wondering. Why do you have your umbrella? It's shockingly sunny out today."

Gregory was correct. The weather was pleasantly wonderful today, as it would apparently be tomorrow. Too often they dealt with cloudy, rainy days, so it was always nice to get a little sunshine. Regardless, Mycroft always had his umbrella. The weather did not make a difference.

"I never go anywhere without it," he pointed out, as if that was a sufficient answer. The look Gregory gave him proved immediately that it was not.

"I know. Why?"

Mycroft fell silent. Ever since he was a teenager… He sighed, thinking to himself. The reason behind it, he had never admitted to anyone. Only he and Sherlock knew, and they did not speak of it. Not that they spoke of much these days. Gregory's mood sobered a bit and he straightened, as if sensing the deepness to his thoughts.

"You don't have to tell me, Myc," he said after a moment. "It's no big."

"No, it's alright Gregory." Mycroft drank more of his tea. If he could tell anyone, it was Gregory. They were becoming quite serious, the two of them, and he needed to get used to the fact that he could confide in the other man without fear of judgment or unnecessary sympathy. He nodded before speaking.

"Sherlock was young. He must have been… no more than six years old. He was put in my care for the day, and he had wanted to go outside and gather up soil samples." The look Gregory got was almost amusing. "Yes, even at that age, he was persistent with those types of things. Well, we ended up wandering a good deal away from the house, neither of us really thinking about it. It had been cloudy, but not too bad. However, we ended up getting caught in the rain. It was very sudden, very heavy rain, and we had no quick way home."

Mycroft shut his eyes, remembering the incident. He sighed and adjusted his napkin needlessly before continuing.

"Sherlock got _very_ sick that evening. We had not been properly dressed to deal with the rain and he was so young. He ended up having to get admitted to hospital. It was a rather terrifying weekend, and I vowed then that I would never go anywhere again without an umbrella."

And he never had. Reaching for his tea, he finished it off, not looking up at the older man. It was rare for him to discuss his childhood, especially concerning Sherlock; at a time where they were just brothers, and things weren't as tense as they were now. Catching movement, he finally looked up to see Gregory standing. He planted his hands on the table and leaned over it, tilting his head and kissing Mycroft sweetly. In public. Mycroft froze in surprise, but relinquished and returned the kiss. His brown eyes were so full of affection as he sat back down at it made his heart ache in a way that was wonderful.

"Thank for you telling me." And that was all Gregory said. He didn't ask for more details, didn't focus on in, and didn't try to comfort him over something that was so long ago. Mycroft smiled. This was one of the many reasons he felt he was falling in love with this man. He just… knew.

"You're very welcome, Gregory," he whispered softly, smiling. He returned to his sandwich as the conversation shifted, moving on to Gregory talking about going out with his daughter. And things were perfect.


	16. Day 16: Untouchable

Greg slammed his front door shut behind him, frowning at the absolute shit day he'd had. His perp got away, Sherlock hadn't answered his mobile, his bloody ex-wife storming into the Yard and waving papers around, tossing shit in his face and accusing him of ridiculous things that weren't true. The divorce was bad enough on its own, and she was doing her best to make it worse.

And then there was Mycroft fucking Holmes.

The man had come into the office, barely twenty minutes after Sally Donovan had thrown his ex out, taking cases away from him and sweeping shit under the rug. Once again he was dismissed like a lowly dog, never mind the Detective Inspector title attached to his name. How was it that the man always managed to appear at the worst possible time and throw his position around? It was infuriating.

The worst thing about it was the way his heart leaped and his chest clenched at the sight of the posh, three-piece suited man. How was it that he could have _feelings_ for the man? He supposed they knew each other, sure, and had for almost six years now. He'd made his presence known shortly after his association with his younger brother began. Sometimes they met over tea in a small café, but it was always strictly business. If it wasn't case he was working on, it was Sherlock. Always Sherlock.

So why was he so bloody smitten with him?

Scowling, he threw his jacket on a chair and walked into the kitchen to fish a beer out of his fridge. He cracked it open and took a generous drink, before heading into the main room and falling onto the couch. There was some sort of football match on, and he turned the volume up to try and distract his thoughts. His head fell back against the couch and he sighed, shutting his eyes.

Maybe it was the divorce. It was messing with his feelings and making him vulnerable. He'd been with Christina for thirteen years, and he'd been blind for almost half of it, at least. Something like that left a hole in a man. And it left him pining for Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft was untouchable. Maybe that was half the problem. Greg found himself thinking about the man more than he probably should, in more situations than he had physically been a part of in years. He gripped the slick bottle tighter, only setting it on the coffee table when it was empty. He ran a hand through his growingly gray hair and sighed.

Mycroft didn't really seem one to be in a relationship. He had a wedding band on his hand, though it was on the right hand instead of the left. Still, a ring didn't necessarily mean anything. Greg still wore his own wedding band, more to stave off questions or people that he just didn't want to deal with. It's possible it was the same for Mycroft. Not that it mattered.

His mobile beeped, pulling him from his thoughts. Upon reading the text, though, it did nothing to further distract him.

_Apologies for earlier. I am aware you have a lot on your plate. Were it not a matter of national importance, it could have waited. –MH_

Greg resisted the urge to throw his phone. This wasn't helping. He sighed, covering his eyes with his hand and falling sideways onto the couch, stretching out. He doubted he'd sleep in his bed tonight. He hardly did, it seemed. There was no point. It was too large for him, and more often than he liked to admit, his thoughts strayed to it being occupied with another body besides his own. Specifically, the body of the man in question.

Mycroft was untouchable. Greg was falling for a symbol, a thought, one that would end in pain and disappointment. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.


	17. Day 17: Dinner

In the span of time they had been dating, Gregory and Mycroft tended to have dinner out at a nice restaurant that never presented them with a bill at the end of the night. Neither had ever complained about this, so it was a bit of a surprise when Mycroft suggested dinner on Friday, that Gregory shook his head at going out again. With his infectious, almost childlike grin, he had instead suggested dinner at his flat, with him cooking. Mycroft knew he had a bit of a culinary background, but it still wasn't something he had expected.

What was even more confounding, and a bit frustrating, was Gregory's refusal to say what they were going to be eating. All he'd done was make it a bit of a challenge.

"Pick a type of wine," he'd said. "I don't need specifics on it, just the general kind, and I'll cook to match."

Mycroft had done so. Now, come Friday night, he stood at his boyfriend's doorstep, with a bottle of white wine in his hand, intrigued as to what was in store. He wasn't one to not have control of a situation, or know what was going to happen and when. It was something that made him feel rather strange. It was Gregory, however, and he knew he could trust the older man in whatever he had planned.

"Perfect timing," came his greeting as Gregory put a hand on the small of his back and they walked inside together. The smells inside his flat were _heavenly_, and Mycroft was immensely excited for whatever it was the older man had prepared. He didn't doubt his cooking skills, and he was looking forward to whatever he had chosen to go along with his vague description of beverage for the evening.

Speaking of which, the bottle was removed from his hand so he could remove his coat. He hung it up and then moved to join Gregory in the kitchen.

"Never seen this label before," Gregory was calling to him, as he made his way closer. "What is it?"

"A French white," Mycroft explained, moving to lean against a nearby counter. He wanted to be in close proximity to his boyfriend, but he also didn't want to get in the way. The man's eyebrow raised in interest as the wine was placed in the fridge to chill until dinner was ready. "2010 Meursault, Jean-Michel Gaunoux."

"Interesting…" Gregory hummed, moving back over to his stovetop and stirring things in pots. Mycroft was immensely curious, but decided to let his nose deduce it for him.

"Shrimp?" he questioned, though he knew the answer. Gregory nodded in affirmation. "And pasta. Yes, that will be delightful with the wine."

"Told ya," he grinned cheekily. They made small, comfortable conversation as dinner was put together; anything from Gregory's daughter to Sherlock's most recent annoyances, to where they were going to go once they finally got a vacation. They shared soft touches and unhurried, yet somewhat distracting kisses, and finally food was ready. Mycroft went about pouring the wine as Gregory fixed their plates, and they sat down together with a final kiss before starting to eat.

The meal was a pasta dish; shrimp with peanut sauce, mixed with cilantro, ginger, bell peppers, and a hint of onion. On the side were slices of garlic bread. Paired with the wine he'd chosen, with its honeyed smell and nutty flavor, was delectable. He made a noise of appreciation that should have been downright sinful, letting the array of flavors settle on his tongue. Across from him, Gregory was rather impressed with the wine, and Mycroft smiled fondly.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, glancing at the glass in his hand. Mycroft crossed his legs under the table and smirked.

"Imported from France," he said, the _'obviously'_ hanging unspoken in the air.

"Imported? Myc, how expensive was this?"

"Not too bad, darling. Around 80 pounds."

Those lovely brown eyes widened in shock, and Gregory stared at him, then down at the wine, and back at him.

"For a bottle of wine?!" he asked in disbelief. Mycroft shrugged.

"It's not a big deal, Gregory." It really wasn't. "Besides, it's worth it, no?"

"Yeah, just… Yeah. Wow."

Mycroft chuckled affectionately and returned to his dish. Silence fell in the kitchen as they just enjoyed the meal and each other's calm company. When they were done, Mycroft helped with the cleaning up, ignoring Gregory's protests that he could do it later, and with everything tidied up and their stomachs full, he wrapped his arms around his boyfriend and pulled him close.

"My compliments to the chef," he mumbled softly, smirking. Gregory returned his grin and leaned in to kiss him. It was a long kiss, their lips molding together expertly, and Gregory nibbled on Mycroft's bottle lip gently before they pulled away from one another.

"What kind of compliments, hmm?" he asked roughly, his grin widening mischievously. Mycroft chuckled, taking his wrist and tugging him towards the main room where they could make themselves _much_ more comfortable.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he mumbled in return.


	18. Day 18: A Necessary Presence

**This fic is piggybacking off the one surrounding Greg in Day 16, taking place around the same time. And no worries, there will be a…conclusion of sorts. Can't have these boys depressed over their supposed one-sided loves forever! ;) As always, thanks to all the kind words you all have been leaving. They mean so much to me! Also, I have been taking prompts and stuff from Tumblr, so if anyone reading on here has the urge, feel free to review with one or message me! Hugs and kisses~**

Mycroft could simply not understand his little brother's sudden fascination with his personal life. It was absurd and extremely annoying. Sherlock had not shown even a fraction of an interest in anything dealing with him since… Well, he would say since he was younger and the still had what you could call a functioning brotherly relationship, but even back then there hadn't been much interest in these kinds of things.

He had honestly been a bit grateful for the deduction battle that had been initiated shortly after, if only for a distraction from that particular conversation. There was no reason for Sherlock to sit there and start showing concern for his _loneliness_. It was beyond irritating, and something Mycroft had refused to stay and listen to any longer than was necessary.

Of course, the most irritating thing about it was that Sherlock wasn't wrong. Mycroft was actually lonely. It wasn't a sentiment he was often familiar with, and it had been something he'd chosen to ignore as long as he was able. However, it was getting more and more harder to do so. Because in the sea of ridiculously slow and incompetent people, there was one person that had started to stand out. One that… for reasons part of him could still not discern was vastly more complex than the rest.

Maybe it was his performance as a Detective Inspector that had impressed him. Or the way he handled Sherlock (especially when they'd first met and his dear younger brother was a mess of a drug addict). It really had nothing to do with his family or his background, which was all rather ordinary. The puzzle of Gregory Lestrade was one that even Mycroft Holmes hadn't pieced together entirely.

The worst part about it, he thought to himself as he sat in front of the fire in his large, eerily quiet home, nursing a scotch, was how intense the sentiment for the older man already seemed to run. It was getting to a point where he was almost making up reasons to check on the Detective Inspector in person. Their last meeting in his office had been a mere smoke screen Mycroft had concocted on the ride over. CCTV had clued him in to the most recent complications Gregory's ex-wife was giving, and he felt a pang of concern. This was why he went to the office himself, instead of just checking footage.

He did not know why he did it. It wasn't like there would ever be any chance of a relationship between the two of them. One usually needed chemistry for that. There was sex, of course, which never completely required a deeper emotional connection, but Mycroft found no desire to seek out such a companionship from Gregory. Plus, one cannot build a relationship on something that was one-sided.

The Detective Inspector was not fond of him. That much was certain. Not that Mycroft ever gave him a reason to be otherwise. All of their correspondences were of a professional nature. Most of the time, this was required, but sometimes… Truth be told, he wasn't one to give people any reason to like him. Which was fine. He could care less what people thought of him. But with Gregory… He cared.

Sighing, Mycroft held his head in his hand, setting his glass to the side. This was ridiculous. He did _not pine_. Surely this was just an annoying passing fancy. It was utter nonsense. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not deny the feelings he had developed for Gregory. It was why he checked up on him in person. It was why he would continue to do so.

Nothing would ever happen. On the outside, Mycroft was okay with this. He had to be. It didn't matter that on the inside was utter chaos. It didn't matter that on the inside he was at war with himself and he couldn't tell yet which side was losing. It didn't matter, because no one would see. Not even his little brother.

Mycroft would remain on the sidelines, doing what he did best. Stepping in and disappearing just as quickly, an aggravating but necessary presence in Gregory Lestrade's life. It would be enough for him. Even if he spent most of his nights decidedly **not** pining.


	19. Day 19: I Found Your Goldfish

**And now for the epic conclusion to our pining, pitiful boys. In which Sherlock meddles...**

"Just…will you _please_ come 'round?" Greg was asking, practically at the end of his rope. The case was getting more and more difficult with each passing day, and even though Sherlock was starting to gather some kind of interest, he was still standing in the flat of 221B having to beg him to get off the couch and actually come to the scene. His irritation was running high, and he was close to either screaming at the detective or pulling his own hair out. In the kitchen, John was making tea, and while Greg appreciated the effort he didn't think he could stomach any of it right now.

"Maybe," came the very bored sounding response from Sherlock. Greg groaned, throwing his hands up in the air.

"Bloody hell Sherlock, how is it you get off pestering me for cases day in and day out and finally I've got one for you and you won't just come?" He was baffled. He would've already said sod it and left if he weren't so desperate. And tired… He was so very tired.

"It's not the case that has you so tightly wound…" Sherlock mused, finally turning his piercing eyes on the Detective Inspector. Greg raised an eyebrow, frozen in spot, and sighed.

"What are you on about?" he groaned. He was in no mood to be deduced down to every fiber of his clothing today. But if it had any chance of helping to get him to the crime scene, he'd endure.

"You need release. Of a sexual nature, most likely. Something to keep you from going home to your dingy flat alone every night."

"Oy!" Greg yelled, crossing his arms tightly. He was starting to fume now. Out of anyone imaginable, he absolutely did not _need_ relationship advice from Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock," he heard John fuss next to him. The doctor had entered the room, and handed Greg a steaming mug of tea. He accepted automatically, but made no motion to drink it just yet.

"Not a random encounter at the pub, though. No…" Sherlock continued, completely ignoring the two older men in the room. Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a migraine coming on. Fantastic. He opened them again as he could feel that all-knowing stare practically burning a hole through him.

"Sherlock, please, I really need you to come take a look, it's getting…"

"No, there's someone specific that's caught your interest," the young Holmes continued, completely ignoring what Greg was trying to say. "Not someone you see every day, but someone you know enough to develop some kind of attachment to. You haven't made a move, however, which is why you're so tightly wound. No, this person is someone you don't feel you have a chance with whatsoever, so you sit by making yourself miserable."

Greg gaped. He turned to stare at John, as if looking for answers, and just got a shrug in return. How was it that Sherlock was suddenly so interested in things of this nature? He could never have been bothered with sentimental things before… Before he was supposedly dead for two years. It was strange seeing this side of him. Almost as strange as the looks he'd noticed between the two flatmates. He knew those looks all too well. He hoped it was something he and John could share a conversation about sometime soon at the pub. Until then, he said nothing.

"Why do you-"

"The ring's a ruse, you know," Sherlock interrupted again. Greg blinked. The…ring? Who's ring?

"Um."

"A ruse, yes. Don't be tedious, Lestrade, I despise repeating myself. It was passed down to him from our grandfather in his will. I hardly knew him but apparently they were close. And so he wears it."

_He_. Oh Christ, Sherlock was talking about his brother. Greg could feel the back of his neck getting hot, and quickly he turned his attention to the tea in his hands. Of course Sherlock would notice that he was pining after Mycroft bloody Holmes. This was awful. He wanted to crawl in a hole and die.

Sherlock, why are you bringing up Mycoft?" John asked, brow furrowed. His mouth opened in a silent oh upon taking in the change in Greg's features. Gotta love that clarity. Great.

Vaguely, he heard a door open and shut. Sherlock got an eerie grin on his face, and was immediately off the couch. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, evenly spaced, and Sherlock stood there expectantly while Greg stood there confused and horrified.

"Ah, perfect. We were **just** talking about you," Sherlock said, eyes locked on the front door. Greg froze, shutting his eyes and exhaling through his nose. This was not happening. He was imagining this.

"Oh dear lord, that's never a good sign," a smooth voice sighed. A voice that caused Greg's chest to clench as he forgot how to breathe. He gripped his mug tighter before finally forcing himself to turn and see Mycroft Holmes standing there, umbrella in hand, looking as dashing as ever in a three-piece suit he'd never seen. An involuntary noise escaped him, causing all eyes to lock on his person.

No… _**Now**_ he wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

"Mycroft, I do believe we have found you a goldfish," Sherlock said, his voice perked with delight. The genuine surprise that came onto the elder Holmes features made Greg's eyes widen, and after a moment, their eyes locked. Sherlock looked between them, a grin turning into a smirk, and those slender violinist hands waved between them.

"Mycroft, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Both of your rings are ruses. Both of you are having personal issues, and both of you can't stop thinking about the other. That last tidbit had been rather aggravating for me. Why don't you step into the kitchen and share a cup of tea, yes?"


	20. Day 20: The Past

What started out as a good date – no, a _fantastic_ date – did a fine job of screwing up royally. Greg was silently fuming as he and Mycroft left the restaurant, and the drive back home was equally silent. Beside him, his partner was patient, saying nothing, just reaching out and taking his hand supportively.

The two men hadn't seen each other in almost a week, due to Mycroft's work taking him to somewhere near Bolivia, he'd said. This had been his first night home, and they decided to celebrate by going out to one of their favorite restaurants for a nice dinner, and then back home for what was bound to be a massive amount of sex.

That was when Greg's old partner from his early days at the Yard had seen him and decided to come over and chat. By chat, he was trying to brush everything under the rug and pretend like they were still old buddies, while trying to get his forgiveness and insist things were different.

Greg all but stormed into his and Mycroft's shared home, the politician striding in gracefully behind him.

"Gregory," the younger man finally spoke, causing him to halt in place and glance over his shoulder. Mycroft was hanging his coat and umbrella up, before walking over and tugging him into a hug. "Calm down, Gregory. We are home now. He is gone."

Greg pressed his face into Mycroft's neck and breathed deeply, letting some of the stress melt away from him. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"Sorry, Myc. He just… He came out of no where," Greg mumbled, his voice muffled by Mycroft's skin slightly. "I haven't seen him in over ten years, and we didn't part on nice terms."

Mycroft rubbed his other half's back gently, pressing a kiss to his temple.

"Tea?" he asked, stepping away. Greg nodded, even though he didn't really want it. He walked into the kitchen with him, leaning on the counter with a sigh.

"He was crooked. Got in with such a bad crowd. It was all about the money, and the ranks. He didn't… He didn't care about honest police work anymore," Greg found himself saying, pouring the story out to the love of his life. He scrubbed his face with a hand and sighed. The younger man said nothing, going about their tea preparation while listening attentively.

"Got me shot, in the end. Not on purpose, of course, but still. I almost didn't survive surgery. And my little girl… She was barely a year old." Greg frowned at the bad memories. He'd just barely become a father and the damn man had almost gotten him killed. Over a gang. And _drugs_. And he dared to come up to him tonight and beg forgiveness; acting like what happened was no big deal.

He was staring down at his hands, frowning hard, until slender fingers were under his chin and lifting his face up. Brown eyes locked with pale blue, and it made Greg's heart skip a beat. Mycroft gazed at him affectionately, stroking his cheek.

"You are the finest Detective Inspector that Scotland Yard could have ever asked for. You are an upstanding, intelligent, honest cop. You got where you are because you worked hard, you overcame ridiculous obstacles, and you put up with so much. Myself and Sherlock included." Greg huffed out a laugh and rolled his eyes. Mycroft immediately commanded his attention again with a slight nudge. "You are the love of my life, Gregory Lestrade, and right where you need to be. Do not concern yourself with a low-life crooked cop from your past who was unable to embrace the concepts and values you hold above all others."

They stared at each other for a long while. Greg could feel his anger fading away, and his eyes reflected it. Mycroft gave him a soft smile and leaned in, kissing him gently. They kissed for ages, until the need for air and the kettle caused them to pull away.

"Thank you Myc," Greg whispered softly, pressing their foreheads together.

"Always, my dear Gregory. Now, tea?"


	21. Day 21: The Queen pt1

**The first of a two parter, because I just couldn't stop typing and it was getting far too long to be a drabble. It doesn't get so far in this part, but a heads up, this is going to be the most NSFW plot I've written so far (though it'll be heavily more so in the second part that will be uploaded tomorrow).  
****This is a result of me being obsessed with Mark Gatiss' legs and thinking that Greg damn well would be too. ;)**

The last time Greg was so eager for something, he had been ready to propose to the love of his life. Maybe, in comparison to something as huge as getting engaged to the man he was spending the rest of his life with, this was peanuts, but regardless. He could barely contain his excitement (and quite frankly, his arousal), throughout the day. As he tried focusing on paperwork, his eyes kept glancing at the fancy black box he'd set beside his desk, and thinking about the contents inside…

It took every ounce of self-control not to leap off the couch later that night when Mycroft got home from work. Clearing his throat and taking a deep breath, he strode through to the front door with a smile, pulling the younger man into a hug and kiss, as he did rather often.

"Welcome home, love," he whispered, gazing up at his other half's eyes. He got a warm smile in return, and another kiss.

"I am glad to be so," Mycroft said sincerely, before hanging up his umbrella and heavy coat. Before his partner could make his way towards the kitchen for tea, Greg grabbed his hand and tugged him upstairs toward their bedroom.

"Gregory?" Mycroft started to question, blinking in confusion as he was pulled to the edge of the bed and made to sit down.

"I have something for you," Greg grinned, eyes shining with excitement. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, watching as the older man went to retrieve the box he'd kept looking at all day long. His stomach was fluttering as he knelt back down in front of his partner. He did not open the box, though. Not yet.

Slowly, Greg began to run his hands down Mycroft's leg, starting up at the knee and making his way down to the ankle. Mycroft hummed softly, enjoying the sensation, even if he was still terribly confused as to what was going on. Then, Greg began untying his dress shoe, pulling the laces apart slowly, before slipping it off and setting it to the side. He repeated this entire motion on his other leg. Then, he slipped his hands up the leg opening, pushing his trousers up as far as they would allow. Leaning in, he began to press soft, slow kisses to Mycroft's shin as his hands moved to tug off his socks, where they were set with his shoes. Only after Mycroft's feet were bare and his legs exposed up to the knee did Greg look up at his husband.

"Gregory?" Mycroft questioned again slowly, blinking at the look in those dark brown orbs he loved so much. He could pick up the hints of arousal easily, and it caused a slow burning to start in the pit of his own stomach. All Greg did was smile, before leaning back to resume his kissing. His hands rested against Mycroft's leg, slowly kneading the muscles in a massage. It pulled a happy noise from the politician's throat, his eyes fluttering closed. Greg continued this for a moment before letting go and opening the box.

The heels that he pulled out had been quite a difficult choice to make. He ended up choosing a pair that was black satin with an open toe and a strap that wrapped around the ankle. Climbing up the heel was a golden creeping flower design, and the ankle strap had a royal blue ribbon threaded through it that ended in a noticeable, but not overbearingly large bow (the same blue that, conveniently, Mycroft had chosen for a tie earlier that morning). Licking his lips, his heart pounding, Greg slipped the heel onto Mycroft's foot, gazing at the way it slid on rather perfectly. Then, he moved up to fasten the strap, gazing at the little muscles on the other man's ankle as it adjusted.

Mycroft's eyes flew open wide, and he looked down at what was going on. His mouth dropped open in surprise, Greg looking up just in time to catch the reaction. His grin widened.

"You remember our conversation about how much I worship your legs?" Greg asked deeply, which was the only explanation that was needed. The older man watched as his husband's blue eyes grew a little darker as his pupils dilated. Yes, he definitely caught his drift. Heart rate escalating a bit, Greg broke their locked gaze and went back to the task, getting the other heel on as well. Then, he rested back on his haunches and gazed up at Mycroft.

Who, as Greg reached out to grasp his knees, lifted one of his legs and pressed his now heel-clad foot square against Greg's chest. Greg blinked, glancing down, and then with no hesitation, was shoved to the floor. He fell back onto his elbows and his head jerked up. It was his turn to have surprise written all over his face. Mycroft stood, now towering over his husband, a smirk starting to spread onto his face. It was an expression that shot heat straight down to Greg's groin.

"Well now, Detective Inspector," Mycroft finally spoke again, his voice having dropped a fair amount as well. "Seems to me you've been up to no good."


	22. Day 22: The Queen pt2

Greg wasn't completely sure how he'd ended up the way he had, but it was sending such intense excitement through him. Mycroft had a rather intimidating presence as he stood over him, hands on his hips, having shoved the older man down onto the floor with a possessive gleam in his eyes. Biting his lip, he broke the gaze they had held to slide down his body.

The heels he had slipped onto his husband's feet had been a lovelier choice than he'd been prepared for. Dark brown eyes looked up and down his legs, gazing at the way his calves stood out more prominently in the elevated state. The shape and curve became so much more exaggerated, and Greg wanted to touch and kiss and stroke it.

"Get up, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said deeply after a moment. Greg managed to pull his eyes away from the man's legs and back up at him, before nodding and pushing himself up. He took a step forward with the intention of pulling him into a rough kiss, but a hand on his chest stopped him.

"Myc?" he asked, his voice deep. Mycroft looked very pointedly at him.

"I don't believe you gained the right to call me that tonight," he growled. Greg shivered. Leaning close, Mycroft pressed his lips right up against his ear, his voice barely above a whisper, hot breath hitting the older man's skin. "No, Detective, that won't do at all. Something more appropriate, such as Your Highness."

"Oh _JesusfuckingChrist_," Greg groaned. Something that he'd randomly thought about was quickly turning into a full-blown kink, and it seemed that his other half was more than happy to indulge him. His trousers were terribly tight and something needed to be done about it soon. Mycroft chuckled, pulling Greg back into the now.

"Not quite," he commented, his smirk widening, "Take your jacket off."

Greg did so instantly. He found himself ready to do anything he was told. Mycroft seemed ready to take control, ready to command, and Greg was more than happy with that situation. He tugged the jacket off and dropped it to the ground. Reaching forward, Mycroft unfastened the buttons of his shirt expertly, and ran his manicured nails down his shortly exposed chest.

Greg groaned. Unable to stop himself, he reached forward and grasped Mycroft's tie, tugging them together and kissing him hard. There was sucking and biting, full of raw desire, the kind of kiss that could leave marks. Mycroft let it happen for a moment before breaking the kiss and almost glaring.

"Did I say you could kiss me, Detective Inspector?" he asked roughly.

"N-no… Your Highness," Greg whimpered.

"Then why did you?"

"Because…"

"Because _why_, Detective Inspector?"

"Because I've been up to no good." Greg felt breathless. His husband had a domineering presence that was taking over every fiber of him. He was aching for Mycroft, head spinning, and he wanted to clutch at him again so badly. He yearned for his touch, his kiss, and even more. He wasn't one to beg, but he would gladly do so.

"Precisely. I believe a punishment is in order." Mycroft grabbed Greg's arm and dove in, kissing him again heatedly and moving them a bit, so he could shove the older man down onto the bed. He bounced on the mattress, moving to sit up, before yet again a heel collided with his chest. This time, however, it remained for a moment. Greg took this opportunity to dive forward and start running his hands along the curve of his calf, feeling the hardened muscle. He began kissing Mycroft's ankle, nuzzling the dip behind it, massaging his shin. The politician allowed a soft noise of pleasure to escape, and Greg was able to continue this for a moment before he was pushing to lie on the bed. Mycroft climbed on his knees, straddling the older man but not quite touching him, staring down at him heatedly.

"You are at my mercy tonight, Detective Inspector. You will do as I wish you to. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes Your Highness."

Greg's heart was racing. _Yes_. He understood, and he was ready and willing for anything. He was craving it. Mycroft began to get closer, a possessive look in his eyes as he scraped his nails through silvery hair.

"Good," Mycroft growled, leaning in for another rough kiss. "If you behave and follow instructions properly, I'll make it _very_ worth your while."


	23. Day 23: Book Club

"Gregory? What are you reading?"

Greg glanced up from the book he had in his hand to gaze at Mycroft, who had just walked into the living room. The younger man had been holed up in his study for almost three hours, after having to take a phone call and interrupting their cuddle session. He bookmarked his spot and sat it down.

"Abarat," he said, glancing at the front cover. Mycroft's gaze followed, arching an eyebrow.

"Interesting…" Mycroft said, getting an amused look on his face. Then, he noticed the large stack of books sitting on the table next to his partner and tilted his head to better see the spines. He got gradually more amused with each one he saw. "Looking for Alaska, Harry Potter, Redwall… Stardust, The Hobbit…?"

"Oh shut up Myc," Greg frowned, crossing his arms. "I'm reading them along with Abby, okay? She wanted us to start a little Skype Book Club thing."

Abby was Greg's eleven-year-old daughter, and the little firecracker took after her father in many ways. She was a bit of a tomboy, had been playing football on an actual team for three years now, and thanks to the custody agreement with his ex-wife, she only got to stay with them one week a month. Granted, that was better than one weekend, but still. So, in their position, Abby had decided that they should start up a book club that they video chatted about through Skype.

"Yes, but… The Princess Diaries?" Mycroft asked, picking up the book on the top of the stack and smirking. He turned the book over to show the older man the cover; bright pink with a shiny crown on it.

"It's actually pretty good. You can hush up and go read your Shakespeare and Dickens and…whoever wrote Beowulf," Greg said all defensively. Mycroft returned the book to the stack and chuckled as he moved to sit down next to him on the couch.

"No need to get upset, darling," he sighed, grin still on his face, as he wrapped an arm around Greg's shoulders. "It's just an amusing selection, is all."

"Your face is amusing."

"Oh come on now, Gregory, those books are making you act childish."

"They're good books," Greg stressed again, though he put up no fight when he was pulled to lean against his partner's side. He pressed his cheek against Mycroft's shoulder and sighed softly.

"Apologies, darling. It was not my intention to insult you, or dear Abigail's choice of reading. I think it's wonderful the two of you are doing something like this. It's a good way to bond," Mycroft spoke soothingly, running his hand up and down Greg's bicep. After a moment, Greg lifted his head and leaned in to kiss the younger man gently, smiling as he pulled back.

"Apology accepted," he whispered, kissing him again before straightening himself and reaching for the copy of Abarat he'd been reading. "Now if you're really good, I can read aloud to you."

"I'll pass, Gregory, thank you."

"Chapter twelve," Greg said, ignoring his boyfriend with a shit-eating grin on his face. "It was a bizarre journey for Candy. For John Mischief too, she suspected."

"Oh_ good lord_. I'm going to make some tea." Mycroft stood, walking briskly out of the room. Greg laughed and shouted the next sentence out loud after his retreating form.


	24. Day 24: A Day at the Park

**Fulfilling a prompt submitted to me by the lovely Morgana-le-Fei!**

"This is awful," Mycroft groaned as he was very reluctantly dragged along the sidewalk. His highly amused partner, Gregory, was walking along beside him with a grin on his face. It was most certainly _not_ funny.

"Well, Myc, you are the one that sent John and Sherlock to Paris for a case. So… you kinda dug this grave," the older man responded, snorting in amusement as very eager bulldog tried running down the path of the park, causing Mycroft to grunt as he gripped tightly at the leash that was somehow still attached.

"I still do not understand why they decided to get this ridiculous creature," Mycroft continued to fuss, trying to reign the pup in. He'd hoped for a calm stroll through the park while it did its business, but apparently that was not going to happen.

"Because Gladstone is adorable," Greg said, motioning towards the dog. Mycroft looked at him pointedly. Adorable was not the word he was leaning towards to describe it. "And John loves him. Besides, you said yourself Sherlock had a dog when he was younger. It just makes sense."

Mycroft huffed. Making sense or not, it was still a rather ridiculous inconvenience for them. What was going to be a quiet week of relaxation, as the two men had gotten the majority of their time off from both their jobs for once, had turn into a dog sitting week. Yes, he had sent his brother and the good doctor off on a case, but he had been under the impression that Mrs. Hudson would watch Gladstone. He firmly believed this was Sherlock's revenge for giving him the case to begin with.

"Here, love, let me take over," his partner said after a moment, reaching over to take the leash from his grip. Mycroft sighed in relief as the tugging stopped, and gave his aching shoulder a rest. Gregory was much better with the dog than he was. Though, Mycroft had never been good with dogs. Redbeard had been Sherlock's dog, and his little brother had been at the age that he was very possessive over his canine companion. Mycroft's experience with the animal was very slim.

They wandered over to the grass as Gladstone caught scent of something he apparently found extremely fascinating. Adjusting his waistcoat, Mycroft trailed behind Gregory a little bit, watching the older man with the dog. He seemed to be a natural with Gladstone. If Mycroft weren't so turned off by the hyperactive nature of most dogs he'd ever come in contact with, he would almost consider getting them one. It was rather adorable watching the two of them play, and listening to Gregory's laughter. It would, however, be rather impossible for them to keep such an animal in their home, so it wasn't something he considered, really. In all honesty, a cat would be better suited for them.

Mycroft walked over to a bench and sat down, crossing his legs and focusing on getting his breath back. The little pup was feisty, that was for sure. He felt like he'd sufficiently gotten his workout for the day. Looking over, he sighed with affection as he saw Gregory sitting on the ground, wrestling with Gladstone, who was eager for the attention. As he'd said, adorable.

"Wanna join us, Myc?" Gregory asked, turning his head to look at him. The grin on his face was wide, and the shine in his eyes was mischievous. Mycroft gave him and pointed look and raised his hand in a polite decline.

"Don't be foolish, Gregory. I am not getting on the ground."

Gregory chuckled a bit, turning his attention back to Gladstone.

"I know," he said, not taking his eyes off the animal jumping into his arms and barking. "Just teasing."

Mycroft smirked slightly, keeping his attention on the expressions of delight on his other half's face. He supposed it wasn't _too_ bad of a day at the park, after all.


	25. Day 25: A Lovely Morning

Mycroft so enjoyed his Saturday mornings as of late. It had come to his attention that Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade enjoyed to take his team out and all play football in a park near the Yard. In his curiosity, the politician drove by one day and became entranced.

He had, a while ago, accepted his attraction for the older man that his younger brother pestered so frequently. Watching him play football, however… It became something he came to watch more and more often. He never made his presence known, of course, because he imagined that would be rather embarrassing.

Today, unfortunately, he no longer had to imagine. As usual, he sat near the edge of the field in the back of one of his black vehicles, admiring the way he saw Gregory bending and stretching in between plays. It really was sinful watching the way his legs bent in those shorts, or when he bent over… Mycroft didn't usually pause and admire an individual's backside, but Gregory Lestrade's definitely deserved admiring. When the man straightened and poured water over his face, though, Mycroft's mouth gaped.

"Good lord…" he muttered to himself, eyes widening at the sight. How was such a simple act so utterly arousing? He cleared his throat, resting his elbow on the window, and glanced away momentarily. As he looked back up, however, he noticed Gregory looking… right over at him. Staring and grinning. And walking over. Mycroft immediately felt mortified. The two of them had known each other long enough that he could recognize Mycroft's forms of transportation, and here he was, walking across the field and over to him. He considered telling the driver to leave immediately. However, his window of opportunity passed. So, accepting his fate, he sighed and stepped out onto the grass.

"Mycroft Holmes, to what do I owe the pleasure this morning?" Gregory asked, jogging over and stopping in front of him. He was breathless from the intense physical activities he'd just been participating in, and there was a sheen of sweat along his forehead and neck. Mycroft stared. His eyes flicked to the heaving of his chest, and immediately his mind took them to a different location. A more intimate location, with both of them wearing far less clothing. _Oh dear._ This was not an ideal situation at all.

"Just… checking in on the results of your case," Mycroft managed to get out; a complete lie, of course. What was it about the Detective Inspector that put his mind on a blank slate? He eyed the man again, observing the way his hands rested on his hips, and found himself longing to replace those hands with his own. He cleared his throat and managed a tight smile. Gregory looked at him in a way that led him to believe the older man wasn't buying that whatsoever.

"Ah. And you… Didn't just swing by the office?" he asked, his grin widening. He had to know. Mycroft was usually so good at not giving himself away, but it seemed that it was not working to his favor today. He was feeling more and more mortified as the seconds ticked away.

"Yes, well. I, um," Mycroft found himself stammering. He did _not_ stammer, he needed to get a hold of himself. Whatever train of thought he was attempting to come up with, however, was cut short as he heard a shout on the field behind them.

"Hey, heads up!" Phillip Anderson shouted. Mycroft turned to look and see what was going on, and happened to see a ball flying through the air. Right. At. Him. He didn't have time to react before a body collided with him, pushing him to the side as the ball whipped past. He could feel the brush of wind in his face where it just barely missed him, and let out a surprised noise as it bounced to the ground.

Only then did he realize how he got out of the way. Gregory was suddenly much closer to him. Closer as in their bodies were pressed against each other. He could feel the warmth of the older man's body sinking into him, and could actually feel the way his panting chest pressed against his own. A mixture of scents surrounded his nose: deodorant, cologne, and sweat… It was an unspeakably _Gregory_ smell. Again his mind went to his more intimate location, and he had to try his hardest not to let out a groan in the back of his throat. Their eyes connected, and Mycroft could practically feel his heart leap up into his throat.

It was Gregory who stepped back first, squeezing Mycroft's bicep gently and exhaling.

"That was close," he commented, running a hand through his hair, which caused the silvery strands to spike up a bit. "Sorry, Mycroft. Anderson is absolute rubbish at football. He can't kick it straight to save his life."

"It's…alright," Mycroft commented, clearing his throat again. He gripped his umbrella a little tighter than normal, attempting to curb the intense heat flooding through him now. This was embarrassing.

"Listen," Gregory continued after a moment. "How about we meet up for lunch, okay? We can talk about the…case then. I'm sure you've got a lot to do, being the British Government and all."

With that, the Detective Inspector jogged over to grab the stray ball and started to make his way back to the field, turning his head to look at Mycroft and grin. And wink. Mycroft could definitely feel himself blushing at that. He nodded, trying to keep himself composed as he climbed back into his car to try and avoid the fact that he was crawling back to privacy. Once the door was shut, he let out a sigh mixed with a groan mixed with a whimper. That was ridiculous. He couldn't remember the last time his mind had gone straight to sex so intensely. Never mind the fact that he already fantasized about the two of them doing very inappropriate things together. This latest encounter was sure to heighten those fantasies.

Lunch would be interesting. There was no case for them to really discuss. His most recent one had been of no significance to his position. Which meant…

Lunch would definitely be interesting.


	26. Day 26: January Guest Writer

**So a friend of mine had come up with an idea of getting guest writers once a month throughout the year to write a drabble for me to submit. I'm giving it a shot, and here is the first one! It is written by that friend, whose Tumblr username is gooberfeesh and I love and adore her.  
****If anyone reading on here is interested in such a thing, feel free to PM me! And as always, I take prompts of any kind as well~**

It was a muffled sound of contentment that drew Mycroft's focus away from the screen of his mobile to the head that laid on his lap. He and Gregory were sat on the sofa - well, _he _was sat on the sofa; Gregory was lounging - and his lover had taken it upon himself to use Mycroft's thighs as a makeshift pillow.

A smile upturned the younger man's lips as he walked two nimble fingers down the bumpy slope of Gregory's nose. "Cozy?" he asked, amused.

"_Mmmn_," came the thoroughly satisfied response.

Mycroft chuckled softly and then relocated his long digits to reside in Gregory's hair; he stroked the salt-and-pepper strands affectionately, which encouraged yet another deep groan of pleasure from his lap.

"If you keep at that, I'll f-fall…" Gregory broke off, yawning massively. "…I'll fall asleep."

"Then perhaps I should stop at the risk of compromising your sleep schedule," Mycroft teased, pausing in his soothing actions.

"I'll beg, Myc. You know I will."

"How very tempting…"

Mycroft's hand hovered as Gregory turned his head to gaze up at him. His brows were furrowed and his dark eyes gleamed with a level of pitifulness _so _tremendous that it predated his age by at least four decades. Of course, it also didn't help that his bottom lip had protruded itself slightly, creating what was undeniably _the most _pathetic pout Mycroft had ever witnessed (and that said a lot when one's younger brother was Sherlock "petulant child" Holmes).

"_Really_, Gregory," he sighed, resuming his methodic strokes.

His other half seemed immensely pleased with himself, and it reflected in the way his vulnerable expression transformed into one of unmistakable triumph: He grinned, his large central incisors white and beautiful in his lovely mouth.

Refraining from rolling his eyes, Mycroft stated: "I rather like your hair at this length."

"Yeah?" Gregory asked, retaking his previous position with his cheek pressed against the comfortable pair of thighs.

"Indeed. I ask that you reconsider your monthly grooming and grant me another week or so of admiring these marvelous silver locks."

It was Gregory's turn to chuckle. "Christ. Where were you when I started graying at thirty? I would've loved to hear that."

Mycroft's fingers raked over the crown of his partner's head now, straight over the field of black follicles that had yet to lose their pigment. He repeated the gesture in that particular area for a minute and then moved to the one temple that was exposed to him; it was here that he used a single manicured fingernail to scratch over Gregory's sideburn.

"My sincerest apologies for not having found you sooner, darling, but do believe me when I say that I fully intend to offer continuous amounts of unabashed flattery as I see it fit," he finally replied, ever the eloquent embellisher.

Unfortunately, his elaborate praise fell upon deaf ears for a soft stream of snores very quickly informed Mycroft that Gregory had - just as he'd forewarned - fallen asleep. Nevertheless, the stroking of the older man's hair continued as fluidly and gracefully as it had been, even when Mycroft's attention eventually returned to his mobile some moments later.


	27. Day 27: Can't Sleep

Mycroft held back a groan of relief as he stepped through the threshold of his home. He set his suitcase to the side and hung up his jacket and umbrella in silence. He'd just gotten home from a business trip that had taken a week, and things had gotten rather hectic. The politician hadn't slept a wink in over 36 hours. There had been too much to do. And while he had been able to push back any fatigue to get his work done, now that he was home it was all crashing down on him.

Gregory hadn't gotten home yet, so the house was empty apart from him. He had assumed as much. With a small frown, he made his way to the bedroom to put up the contents of his suitcase, and to change into a comfortable set of pajamas. Everything was hung up and put in the clothes bin properly, as needed, before he would allow himself a moment's pause. Pulling on his house robe, he headed back to the kitchen to make some tea.

As he was finishing his cup, the front door opened and closed again, announcing his partner's arrival. Mycroft covered his mouth as a particularly intense yawn assaulted him, and he made his way to greet the older man.

"Myc, welcome home," Gregory smiled sweetly, pulling him into a hug. "How was everything?"

"Exhausted," Mycroft huffed irritably. Those wonderful brown eyes he loved so much softened greatly, and he heaved a sigh, which melted into another large yawn.

"Let's go to bed, yeah?" he had prompted, without asking when the last he'd slept was. Mycroft just nodded, following his partner wordlessly back to the bedroom. He went ahead and crawled in bed as Gregory changed into his own pajamas, before he was joined.

One would assume that laying in one's own bed, with the warmth of your boyfriend next to you, without the urgency of any kind of work floating overhead, that one could fall asleep fairly easily. Yet, Mycroft lay there, just staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open. He was beyond exhausted, and he couldn't get to sleep. He sighed. Next to him, the bed shifted as Gregory turned onto his side and gazed over at him.

"Can't sleep?" he asked. Mycroft huffed another sigh and eyed the older man.

"That should be fairly obvious," he said a little more harshly than he had meant. It had to have been the fatigue, causing him to get irritable. Gregory didn't seem fazed by it, however. Instead, he wrapped his arms around the younger man and pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his temple. Mycroft curled into him, pressing his face into the crook of his neck.

Gregory began running his fingers through Mycroft's ginger hair, moving down to his neck, and repeating. Then, after a few moments of silence, he began humming. Mycroft didn't recognize the tune. Arching an eyebrow, he pulled back enough to look up at him.

"What are you doing?" he asked softly, staring at the man with tired eyes.

"Used to sing to the girls when they couldn't sleep, when they were young," Gregory responded by way of explanation. Mycroft blinked.

"I am not a child, Gregory," he muttered, his brow furrowing slightly.

"I am aware. Just trust me, Myc."

Mycroft didn't respond, but after a second he nodded, and nuzzled close again. His partner resumed his humming. In the dimly lit room, Mycroft focused on those sounds, and the feeling of arms wrapped around him, and calm breaths. He allowed his eyes to shut as he enjoyed the sensations.

He couldn't say when it was he fell asleep. It was definitely not more than ten minutes after the humming had started. The sleep he fell into was deep and peaceful, rid of all worries. Just he and Gregory. The way it was meant to be.


	28. Day 28: Exams

**My first teen!strade drabble! Yaaaay~**

"Myc, I am absolutely freaking out," Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair and practically collapsing on his boyfriend's bed. He covered his eyes with his arm, wanting to will it all away. No exams, no grades, just…none of it.

"They're not that bad Gregory, honestly. Shall I quiz you?" the posh younger boy asked from where he was sitting at his desk. He was technically a grade younger than Greg, but he was taking last level classes, so they shared a majority of them. It was how the two teenagers met. They'd never expected their meeting to end up with them dating, as had no one else in the entire school, but that's what happened. Somehow, the rough, almost punky Greg Lestrade had wormed his way into the heart of Mycroft Holmes, who only associated with people on a professional level (students and teachers alike).

"I don't know…" Greg groaned, uncovering his eyes and propping himself up on his elbows. He gazed over at Mycroft with another sigh, frowning. It wasn't that he had bad grades. He was pretty smart, considering. But a few of these classes were just intensely difficult. He'd been studying his arse off for days and he still didn't feel ready.

"The key is to remain calm," Mycroft spoke again after a moment, standing and moving to join his boyfriend on the bed. He remained sitting upright however, not relining like Greg was, and glanced over at him. "You've retained more than you believe, of this I am sure."

"How can you be?" Greg asked, arching an eyebrow. Mycroft smirked at him.

"Because you are more intelligent than you give yourself credit for. You retain more when you have a clear mind. So stop stressing about it, and quit trying to cram the material. Study, take a break, and then study a bit more. And don't think for a moment that I'm going to let you sit up the night before and try to jam things in, because your mind doesn't work that way."

Greg sighed, but nodded. He supposed a break was warranted. He'd been studying in Mycroft's room for a while, and the longer it got, the more stressed he found himself. He knew his boyfriend was right, because he usually always was. Of course he knew Greg's brain better than Greg did himself. He couldn't help but laugh softly.

"You know my mind so well," he voiced the thought aloud, glancing over at him. Mycroft nodded.

"Of course I do. If I did not, or your mind was not worth knowing, we would not be quite in the position we are now," he said. To other people, a sentence like that might come across as cold or harsh, but not to Greg. It just made him smile.

"I know another position I'd like us to be in," Greg said, his grin widening.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Gregory," Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Well, you said I should take a break…" Greg shifted his weight suggestively, eyes locking with the younger boy's. Even though Mycroft sighed again, he did roll to lie almost right on top of the older boy. The tips of their noses touched, and Greg slid his arms around Mycroft's torso.

"I suppose something stimulating wouldn't be a bad thing…" Mycroft grinned, leaning down to kiss Greg. They kissed for a good while, slow and unhurried, just enjoying the feeling of being together. As Mycroft shifted to get on top of the older boy a bit more directly, however, the kiss started to change. It began to get more intense, and more suggestive.

Greg slid his hands down and slipped them under his boyfriend's shirt, sliding them up his bare back. Slender hands returned the gesture by running through black hair, and Greg nibbled on Mycroft's bottom lip a bit. Finally, they had to break away so they could breathe. Both boys panted softly, pupils wider and making both their eyes darker. Greg's previous grin grew more seductive, and his brushed their noses together again lightly.

"Much better to focus on than the exams," he muttered breathlessly, going in to start kissing and biting at Mycroft's neck. The younger boy groaned softly, clutching at him and tilting his head back for a bit more access. Yes… A break had been a good idea for them both.


	29. Day 29: Unexpected Vacation

"Alright Boss, come on. Up," Sally Donovan fussed, hands on her hips with that extremely serious look on her face. Greg, who had been slumped over paperwork and frowning at nothing in particular, lifted his head from his hand with a confused look on his face.

"What, Donovan?" he sighed, leaning back in his chair. He just wanted to finish this bloody paperwork and go home. Maybe get some sleep. Not that it mattered.

"Get. Up. Follow me. This is not up for negotiation," Sally sighed, opening his office door wide and gesturing out. Greg sighed in irritation and rubbed his face with a groan.

"I don't have time for this, Donovan," he groaned, but pushed his chair back and stood anyway. He really hoped this wouldn't take took long. Snatching his mobile, he stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket and followed his sergeant through the Yard and out onto the street. They stopped in front of a black car and Sally turned, handing Greg a bag. He arched an eyebrow.

"In the car, Boss," she said in a tone that wasn't a request. Greg opened his mouth to say something, but her look became more pointed, so he sighed and just decided to do what she said. That was easier than tempting her wrath. So, he opened the door and ducked in, sitting down and shutting the door behind him.

His mouth dropped open as he realized he was not alone in the car. Sitting on the other side was Mycroft Holmes, a man he hadn't seen in over a month.

"Hello Gregory," the politician smiled politely. Greg couldn't decide whether to yell, grin, or kiss his boyfriend stupid. He'd been out of the country for longer than Greg cared to think about, and then when he'd gotten back Greg had been so buried in a serial killer case that he'd been practically sleeping at the Yard. He'd barely seen his own flat, let alone the younger man's.

"Myc?" he questioned, but sighed in relief. Then, he glanced at the other bag in the car, assuming it was his. He looked back up curiously. "What's happening?"

"I assure you, for once, I have no idea," Mycroft sighed, crossing his legs. He picked up an envelope and held it out. "Though, I was instructed we opened this once we were both in the vehicle. Would you like to do the honors?"

Greg nodded, reaching over to take the envelope. Their fingers touched, and their lingered for a moment as the touch caused his heart to leap up in his throat. _Christ_, he had missed Mycroft. Finally, though, he cleared his throat, took the envelope, and pulled it open. He glanced at what was written and his eyebrows practically shot up into his hairline. Mycroft waited patiently, and he cleared his throat before reading it out.

"The two of you have been pains in our arse all month. You both get irritable, overbearing, and annoying when you don't see each other. So, we are sending you on a vacation. You **will **go on this vacation, and you will not return before the allotted time is up. In the trunk of the car is the entire luggage you will require. The driver is taking you to the airport, where he will give you the proper paperwork and your plane tickets. So go, shag each other senseless, and be happy. **No work.** Both of your schedules have been properly rearranged. Yours, A and S."

Silence fell in the car. Greg stared at the paper, rereading the message, before handing it to Mycroft, who did the same. Then, as he was finished, he folded the paper back up and glanced over at Greg.

"Anthea and Sally, huh?" Greg asked.

"It would seem so," Mycroft nodded. There were a few more moments of silence, before Greg shifted closer to the younger man. Their hands touched on the seat of the car, and after a moment, they threaded their fingers together.

"A vacation," Greg whispered.

"Indeed."

"Shag each other senseless."

"Those were the words used."

Both men started laughing after a heartbeat. Their grip one each other tightened, and Greg turned so that his body was more directly facing his boyfriend. It was amazing how easily he gravitated towards Mycroft without really thinking about it.

"It's a dangerous thing, those two working together," he all but giggled. "They might just take over the world if we're not careful, Myc."

Mycroft's smile was genuine now, his eyes bright with laughter. He was stunning. It caused Greg's breath to hitch in his throat briefly. Their laughter began to die off, and Greg reached over to stroke the younger man's smooth cheek.

"Think we have to wait to reach out destination before I 'shag you senseless', as they say?" he whispered. Mycroft's eyes widened, shifting down to Greg's mouth, chest, and then back to his eyes. He seemed to shiver slightly, his pupils widening. While Greg had no complete plan to actually have sex in the back of the car, but it didn't stop him from lifting up and climbing onto Mycroft's lap, leaning down to initiate a heated kiss. Mycroft returned the kiss eagerly, gripping Greg's waist and pulling him close.

One of them groaned, both panting softly as they finally broke apart.

"God I've missed you," Greg said breathlessly, leaning back in to nip at Mycroft's bottom lip. The grip on his waist tightened.

"And I you," he retuned, just as breathless. His usually smooth voice wavered slightly as Greg leaned down and began kissing his neck. "Gregory, if you don't stop, I won't be able to wait until we reach out destination."

A mischievous grin slid onto Greg's face, and the kisses increased in their intensity. He also took a moment to rock their hips together, causing Mycroft to yelp.

"Perhaps that's the point," he said seductively, sucking on Mycroft's collarbone. The politician arched up, pressing their bodies together.

"Yes, perhaps."


	30. Day 30: Love Is Irrational

Mycroft wasn't sure at first what time he woke up. However, upon doing so, he reached over to find the area next to him empty. Confused, he lifted his head and blinked, waking almost immediately. Gregory had been called into the Yard, but he assumed the older man would've been back home by now. It had been a few hours, and his mobile had no messages…

After a few moments, he got a call from Doctor Watson. Who breathlessly informed him that Gregory and Sherlock had been ambushed and injured while chasing a perp. What started out as exhausted irritation grew into concern as John began talking about how they wouldn't let him see either man, or even tell him if they were alright.

He was out of bed immediately, and within minutes he was out of his pajamas and into one of his suits. He shot off a text at lightning speed, summoning one of his cars, and was out the door and on the way to the hospital right after. His exterior was its usual calm, smooth, collected self, but his mind was racing. If they didn't let John, a doctor, see either man, how bad off were they? He was certain that they would allow him in, if they knew what was good for them, and for once he wished he had just as much control over the traffic as Gregory teased him to have.

Finally, he made it to Barts, and strode in quickly. He picked out John's sandy blonde hair amongst those in the waiting room and made his way over.

"Doctor Watson?" he prompted, shifting his umbrella from one hand to the other. John looked up, startled, but nodded and stood.

"They're both somewhere back there…" he mumbled, waving his hand towards a hallway. "I have no idea what's happening."

"I'll find out, I ensure you. Remain here."

Turning, Mycroft made his way over to the reception desk, leaning over slightly and clearing his throat to gain attention of the attending nurse. She was sitting at a computer and chewing gum at an obnoxious rate, which practically made him cringe. He sighed through his nose as he was, not surprisingly, ignored.

"Pardon me," he said in a clipped tone, causing her head to jerk up. "Gregory Lestrade's room, if you would be so kind."

The woman glanced at her sheets, reading the names and notes on it.

"I'm sorry, are you family?" she asked. "Because if not-"

"Gregory. Lestrade's. Room. Please. I will not ask again." He gave her a pointed look, one that had her almost squirming in her seat, and she nodded, muttering the number and proceeding to cower behind the computer monitor.

Turning, he made his way through the double doors and down the hall without the briefest glance back behind him. His long legs still couldn't seem to take him fast enough, but he finally found the room and all but stormed in. Gregory, who was sitting on the bed in the room, looked up in surprise and blinked.

"Oh, Myc," he breathed, visibly relaxing. Mycroft, however, was not so easily appeased. He strode over and reached out, grasping the older man's cheeks with his slender hands, and let his pale eyes roam along his form. Checking for any abnormalities, any injuries, anything at all… Gregory seemed to pick up on that after a moment and reached up, putting his hands on top of Mycroft's, brown eyes softening immensely.

"I'm okay," he said softly after a moment of silence between them. "_Really_. Minor concussion and a cut along my arm, but it's not deep. It's wrapped up already, and it didn't even need stitches. So stop looking for something that's not there."

Mycroft could feel an intensity uncurling inside of him. It might not have been a physical thing, but even still, it seemed like Gregory could just tell. How that man could read him so well, Mycroft would never know.

"When John called me," he said, his voice smooth as it always was, but almost strained. "Said he couldn't see either of you. I feared the worst. You put me out of my right mind, Gregory Lestrade."

"I'm aware," he nodded, grinning brightly. Slowly, he stood, pressing against the taller man and kissing him sweetly. Mycroft made a soft whimper of relief in the back of his throat. "It's called love, Mycroft dear."

"Love is irrational," he huffed against Gregory's lips. They shared a breathless laugh with each other.

"I know. I'm your irrationality."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, my darling Gregory."


	31. Day 31: For Always

Greg felt… strange. He was surrounded by people: friends, family, the community, but as he stood in front of the glossy coffin containing his father, he'd never felt so alone. He'd just been with him last month, and the old man had been lively as ever. They ran the kitchen together, like old times, a synchronization they'd always had with one another. Now here he was. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest as a chill went through his body.

Someone was speaking, though he didn't know whom. He could barely register the words that were being said either. It was all a dull ringing in his ears. He wasn't crying, and he honestly didn't think he had at all since hearing the news a few days earlier. Next to him, however, his mother had a handkerchief up to her face, wiping away tears as they emerged. He remained a solid force next to her, because that's what he had to do. She needed him now more than ever, and he had to be there.

After a while, people began to stop by in front of him and his mum to pay their respects, provide hugs and offers of support, all of which they both thanked automatically. Greg was on autopilot. He didn't really care about any of these people's support, because nothing they could do would actually help. He just wanted to go home and sleep for days. He was only half looking at the people stepping in front of him, nodding and returning hugs as they were given to him, though his eyes tended to lock on the grass at his feet more than the people walking by.

After a moment, as the last of the people were filtering out, the air around him changed. Someone stood in front of him, and he recognized those shoes, and…umbrella. For a second, Greg couldn't breathe, and he forced himself to look up, which put him face to face with Mycroft. His brown eyes widened. Mycroft was silent, but his eyes were so expressive. There was affection and sorrow in those blue orbs, and if they didn't stop looking at each other, Greg feared he would break down on the spot. He hadn't introduced Mycroft to his parents yet. They knew he was dating someone, and that he was dating a man, but nothing else. They had planned a trip a bit closer to Christmas, but now Mycroft would never meet his father.

Yet here he was. His mom continued to stand patiently next to him, but he could feel her eyes on him, as he stood frozen, staring.

"Mycroft…" he practically gasped, his eyes shimmering with tears that threatened to fall any moment. "How did you…?"

"My meeting was concluded early," came the smooth answer. "I can only apologize for not being here sooner."

He reached out as if to clasp their hands together, but Greg found he no longer gave a rat's ass. Stepping forward, he pulled his boyfriend into a tight hug, burying his face into the younger man's slender neck and gripping his suit jacket tightly. Mycroft went stiff in his arms and his breath hitched, as if unsure about the public display in front of his mother. After a second, however, he wrapped his slender arms around Greg's torso and returned the hug with equal fervor.

"Thank you," he said, his words muffled by Mycroft's skin. His body began to shake with silent sobs, as he could no longer hold back the tears anymore. Mycroft pressed his nose into silvery hair, kissing the top of his head.

"Forgive me for not being here earlier, Gregory," Mycroft whispered sincerely. "You needed me and I could not…"

"Shut up, you're here now."

Finally, Greg forced himself to pull away. Taking a deep breath, he rubbed at his eyes and gazed up at the man he loved so goddamn much. He cleared his throat, biting back a sob, and turned to his mother.

"Mum," he started, his voice still wavering with emotion. "This is Mycroft. He's my-"

"I believe I'm quite aware of who he is," she smiled sweetly. "Thank you for coming, dear. It is wonderful to finally meet you."

"My deepest sympathies that it was not under the more preferred circumstances we had attempted to plan," Mycroft responded, stepping over and leaning in to kiss her cheek respectfully.

"Better poor circumstances than never," she responded, reaching out and clasping his hand. "Now, why don't you come back with us so we can have a proper chat, yes?"

She nodded at her son, smiling, before turning to walk away. Greg reached for Mycroft and got up on his toes so he could kiss him deeply. Mycroft gripped at his biceps, returning the kiss with equal intensity, and once again Greg had to force back tears.

"I'm so glad," he said. "I needed you here."

"I will remain by your side as long as you'll have me, Gregory."

"How about for always?"

They shared another intense kiss. Neither man moved to deepen the kiss more than it was, because it wasn't the right time. But there was desperation there, a need that showed Greg's emotional state. They remained there alone for a moment, before finally breaking away with soft gasps. They threaded their fingers together and walking through the cemetery to join back up with the rest of the family.


	32. Day 32: Silence Is Golden

There was a short knock on the office door of the Diogenes Club before it opened, Anthea peeking her head in. Sitting at his desk, Mycroft stiffened and sucked in a breath, before staring at the door. The woman arched an eyebrow.

"Meeting in half an hour sir," she said, before looking down at her Blackberry.

"Y-yes Anthea, thank you," the politician said, voice shaking a bit before he cleared his throat.

"Alright sir?" she asked, glancing up for half a second. "You look a bit flush."

"Just warm in here. I'm fine. Thank you, Anthea."

The woman nodded, eyed him for a second more, and then shut the door. Mycroft was gripping his chair tightly, and exhaled in relief once he was alone again. Well, not quite alone… Glancing under the desk, he glared at the man crouching between his legs.

"Gregory, this is not the time," he hissed, biting his lip and forcing back a whimper as the older man ignored him and leaned forward, running his tongue along his very stiff erection. The two of them hadn't seen each other in a few days, and hadn't had time for any intimate activity for even longer than that, and it had apparently caught up with the Detective Inspector. When Gregory had shown up at his office on his lunch break and all but climbed onto his lap, Mycroft knew there was no stopping it. But in the Diogenes, of all places.

"I suppose I could go…" Gregory teased, leaning back on his feet slightly, grinning. Mycroft's glare hardened.

"Don't you _dare_," he scolded. "You're going to finish what you've started now."

Gregory leaned forward again, continuing his teasing blowjob, and Mycroft bit his lip as his head fell back against his chair. His back arched slightly, his breath picking up quicker. He could feel the heat pooling deep in his belly as his arousal grew. Right when he thought everything would hit, the warmth of his lover's mouth was gone and he whimpered at the loss.

The older man put his hands on the chair and rolled it back so he could climb out from under the desk. He pulled Mycroft to his feet and shoved them together, their mouths clashing in a heated kiss full of want. The politician could feel Gregory's erection though his trousers, and the friction the two of them created as they arched against one another. Mycroft growled into the kiss, and he got his bottom lip sucked on in return. Then, after breaking the kiss, Mycroft found himself being turned around and shoved down against his desk. His chest and hands pressed flat against the wood, shifting papers out of the way, and behind he could hear Gregory unfastening his trousers.

Both men's trousers and pants were tugged down to their ankles, and Gregory opened a drawer to Mycroft's desk and rummaged around until he found the small bottle of lube they'd stored in here a while ago. Mycroft groaned at the pressure of his boyfriend's fingers pressing into him, and shifted his hips back to meet them more eagerly than he cared to admit. The lack of sexual activity was catching up on him now, and good lord he wanted it.

Gregory's fingers were replaced with something much more desired after a moment, and Mycroft sucked in a deep breath. His hand curled into a fist and flew to his mouth, forcing down a loud moan that threatened to come out. Of course he had to be in the middle of some of the best sex he'd had in a while in a building where silence was mandatory.

"Bite down on your tie, love," Gregory grunted roughly, gripping Mycroft's hips so tightly he wouldn't be surprised if there were light bruises there later. The suggestion was the best thing he could think of right now, though, so after a second Mycroft's silk tie was between his teeth.

"G-gregory…" he panted, his usually smooth voice shaking. As their hips rocked together, Gregory leaned down to start pressing hot kisses along his back and shoulders.

"Yes?" he asked against Mycroft's heated skin.

"H-harder…" His request turned into a moan, all muffled by the tie that was stuffed in his mouth.

"_Fuck yes_," came the breathless reply, and Gregory complied. The older man would receive a stern scolding for this later. But now… Mycroft didn't want it to stop.


	33. Day 33: Crap Telly

"Good lord Gregory, what are you watching?" Mycroft sighed, arching a thin eyebrow at the telly. Greg was reclined on the sofa, slumped over with his legs stretched out in front of him. He let his head fall back to glance at the politician, who had just made his way home, and shrugged with a casual grin.

"House Hunters," he responded casually. "Nothing else on."

Mycroft regarded the show, remaining quiet for a few moments as he watched the couple on the screen walking through a house and talking about what they liked about it, what they were looking for, so on and so fourth. House number 2, they called it. If it were possible, his eyebrow went up even higher.

"So you…watch a show…about people picking out dream houses?" he asked slowly, staring at his partner in disbelief. "How old are you, Gregory?"

"Oy. You hush. It's great background noise. Come, sit."

Greg patted the sofa cushion next to him invitingly, but the older man continued to stand and stare warily. It wasn't until Greg glanced back at him with those large brown eyes that his boyfriend complied with his request, and he grinned triumphantly, curling their legs together, as Mycroft settled in next to him.

What Greg hadn't realized at the time, unfortunately, was how this was going to change their viewing habits in the future. It was no big deal starting out. The two of them would cuddle up with each other on the sofa after dinner, talking softly, kissing, and putting something random on the telly as they did so. Every now and again they'd pay attention, depending what kind of programme was put on, and then after a while they would go to bed.

It wasn't until Greg came home from a long day at the Yard, hearing Mycroft muttering and the telly on, that he realized just what had happened. Hanging up his coat, he slowly made his way to where the younger man was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, with irritation painted on his face.

"Myc?" he started curiously, glancing from his lover to the telly and back.

"This is so irritating. This Candice woman clearly doesn't understand the correct concept of that color scheme. I mean _honestly_. She claims to be a leading interior designer and then she puts out stuff like _**that**_? My left pinky could do better."

Greg blinked as Mycroft ranted, staring at the show and waving his hand around in its direction. The only way Greg was acknowledged was when he started directing questions at him and telling him to look at that awful layout.

"Are…you watching Divine Design?" he asked warily, glancing at the telly again. It wasn't a show they'd ever watched, but it aired on the same channel as House Hunters and he recognized the logo on the bottom corner.

"I am, but it is clearly a poor decision because she is out of her mind and should be fired."

Greg stared. Oh good lord. Mycroft was getting addicted to shitty television. What had he done? Shaking his head, he turned and headed to their shared bedroom, pulling out his mobile and texting his best mate as he walked.

_Mycroft is watching awful telly on the Home and Garden Network. Currently Divine Design. And scolding the woman running it. Help. –Greg_

He was down to his trousers when he got the return text, and he walked across the room to fetch his mobile and read it.

_Keep him away from those crass tabloid talk shows. He'll start screaming about how obvious it is the man is or isn't the father. –JW_

Greg shook his head, sighing. So it wasn't just Mycroft…

_What is it with the Holmes boys and crap American telly? -Greg_

_If you find out, mate, please tell me. –JW_

Greg laughed. He and John had grown close over the years, and even more so with the two of them dating Mycroft and Sherlock. They were able to keep each other grounded and sane, for the most part. He finished changing into sweatpants and a baggy football kit jersey, and dared to make his way back to where Mycroft was still sitting.

"I should've watched Property Brothers," Mycroft muttered as Greg sat down next to him.

"Oh? And why's that?" Greg asked, deciding to humor him. For the first time since he'd gotten home, Mycroft turned to look at him.

"Because at least the twins are rather nice on the eyes."

"Oy!" Greg fussed, puffing up. Mycroft smiled, tugging him close and wrapping his slender arms around his waist. Greg hummed as they started kissing, the telly becoming background noise. All was as it should be.

"No worries, darling. I'd rather have one of you than two of them any day," Mycroft cooed against his lips, pulling him in for another deep kiss.


	34. Day 34: Sleepy

Mycroft came home to an incredibly quiet house. It was peculiar and not at all what he had expected, because Gregory's vehicle had been sitting in their garage as he'd arrived home. Quietly, he took off his coat and hung it and his umbrella up, as he did daily, and began to make his way through the house in search of his husband.

"Gregory?" he called out, to no response. He peeked into the kitchen with no luck, and made his way into the living room. Still no sign of the older man. Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he glanced around the room. Nothing on the sofa was disturbed after their cuddles the other evening, so he hadn't even sat down. Normally Gregory relaxed in here with a football match or the news when he came home from work.

Sighing, Mycroft shook his head and turned back to head up to their bedroom. He glanced in the washroom as he passed, in case he'd been in the shower and he hadn't picked up on the sound of running water (which he hadn't, as expected). Their bedroom had been visited, he noted, as he bent down to pick up the tie that had been haphazardly dropped in the middle of the floor. So he had come home and changed out of his clothes, as he usually did. The duvet on their bed had shifted some, so he had clearly sat down for a little while. Yet, like the other rooms in the house he'd checked, he was not present here either.

"Gregory?" he called out again, and still no response. His brow furrowing, he tutted to himself and strode out of the bedroom again. Walking down the hall, he noticed a light on in the older man's office. _Ah._ He smiled in satisfaction to himself as he'd finally located his partner, and made his way in. He opened his mouth to speak as he pushed open the door, but fell immediately silent at the sight before him.

Gregory was slumped over his desk, arms crossed and cheek resting on his hand. His lips were parted slightly, and he was very clearly fast asleep. There were papers scattered all across his desk, and a pen next to him that had obviously slipped out of his grip as sleep had overtaken him. Mycroft's pale eyes softened and a small smile slid onto his face. His darling Gregory had been working himself to the bone over his current case; a serial killer that Sherlock had undoubtedly been very excited about, but one that was slipping out of their grasps more often than they preferred to admit.

Slowly, he made his way over to the sleeping man and leaned forward, placing his slender hands on Gregory's shoulders and shaking gently. He leaned down, his breath ghosting against his husband's ear as he spoke.

"Gregory, _darling_, do wake up," he requested. The older man stirred after a moment, his brow furrowing in half-asleep confusion and blinked himself awake with a questioning groan. Mycroft chuckled and kissed the outside curve of his ear. "Come on love, to bed with you."

"Myc?" the Detective Inspector asked groggily, turning to see him with sleepy eyes. Mycroft's smile just widened.

"Yes, love. Come on now, to bed."

Gregory rubbed at his eyes but complied, standing wobbly and allowing himself to be led through the hall by the younger man. Mycroft slid an arm around his waist as he guided him, until finally they reached their bed and both sat down.

"S'not late, is it?" Gregory asked sleepily, as he moved to curl up on his side with his head on the pillow.

"It is not."

"What about dinner?"

"I assure you, I will take care of my own dinner tonight. You need rest, Gregory." Mycroft stayed where he was, watching as his husband nodded and shut his eyes. After a moment, his breath began to even out again, in what he assumed was sleep. Adjusting the duvet, he moved to stand.

"Dun go," came the rather pitiful request. Mycroft had been halfway standing, and he turned to look over his shoulder. Gregory had opened his eyes again, a sleepy pout stuck on his face, his arm extended across the empty side of the bed. "Please?"

He couldn't resist. Mycroft nodded and toed his shoes off, pushing them aside and climbing into bed. He remained in more of a sitting position, of course, because he was nowhere near ready for bed himself. Gregory curled up against him, draping his arm around Mycroft's waist and nuzzling his arm.

"Missed you," he mumbled, voice slurring with the sleep that was already taking him back over.

"I missed you as well, Gregory," Mycroft whispered back. His husband was already fast asleep.


	35. Day 35: Wear Mine

"Bollocks, I'm going to be _so_ late," Greg groaned, darting back and fourth across the room and picking up articles of clothing that had been strewn all around the room. He was still half naked, John's wedding was in less than an hour, and he couldn't find his bloody tie. Mycroft apparently found him hilarious. The younger man was stretched out on his bed, still completely naked, with a smug smirk on his face, while the older ran in and out of the room like a chicken with his head cut off.

"You could just be late. The reception is usually more important than the ceremony anyway," the politician called after him as he left the bedroom for the umpteenth time, buttoning up his dress shirt. Where was the damn _tie?_

"Or you could come with me," Greg huffed for what wasn't the first time in the past week. Mycroft refused to go, and he couldn't understand why. His company would have been pleasant.

"Gregory, I am not. Everyone will be better off for it," came the same reply every other time he'd mentioned it.

"I won't," he mumbled to himself. Mycroft arched an eyebrow. Greg sighed. "Have you seen my tie?"

Mycroft shook his head, and Greg's shoulders slumped. Of course not. He supposed he could go without, but it just wouldn't look right. Just as he was starting to convince himself to not worry about it, Mycroft finally climbed off the bed. With flawless grace, he strode over to his closet. Greg watched curiously.

"Here," he prompted as he walked over, holding a dark blue tie with silver dots decorating it. The older man looked at him curiously. "Wear one of mine."

Before Greg could reach out to take it, Mycroft was wrapping it around his neck and tying it with expert efficiency. Greg just gazed up at him, reaching out to place a hand on his bare hip. Once it was in place, they looked at each other, breathing together. Then, without warning, Mycroft grabbed the tie and pulled, jerking Greg forward into a heated kiss.

Every piece of clothing he'd thrown on in a rush was removed again just as quickly. Only the tie remained, for a while, as they fell on the bed together, kissing and writhing and groaning. The tie was eventually removed, and re-tied around Greg's wrists. Not a way he'd thought to use it before, but as they had aggressive, mind-blowing sex, he changed his tune on the idea of it.

He gasped Mycroft's name, but the words were lost in his mouth. They both cried out as they came, sweaty and panting and _perfect_.

And Greg was still definitely late for the wedding.

Sherlock called it to attention, of course, as he took one look at the tie and knew exactly where it came from.

"Oh good lord, you're wearing his ties now?" he asked in a clipped voice. Greg blushed and gaped, freezing and holding up the receiving line on the way into the reception.

"Shut up," he grumbled, glaring and trying to force down his embarrassment. _Congratulate the newly weds_, he told himself. _Then get in there and have a bloody drink_.

If Sherlock looked at him more than once while on the phone a little while later, Greg pretended not to notice.


	36. Day 36: Withdrawals

It was their third interruption in the past two hours. Greg sat alone on the couch; movie paused, sighing as Mycroft paced back and fourth in the next room, on his mobile. Greg sighed, scrubbing his face in irritation. They both had tons invested in their jobs, and had known that long before getting into a relationship, but this was their first night of quality time in over a week, and he was on the _bleeding phone_.

Greg's leg bounced up and down, until finally, twenty minutes later, Mycroft was walking back into the room. He had a thoughtful look on his face, the mask of the British government thoroughly in place. Greg stood, frowning, and went to go into the kitchen.

"I'm going to bed," he said, voice short, as he carried empty tea mugs in to be rinsed. Mycroft arched an eyebrow and sighed, following.

"Gregory, the movie is still on," he said, crossing his arms and watching his boyfriend from the doorway.

"Forget it. It's a stupid bloody movie and you clearly have a lot of work to do." Great, he was snapping. Now he was getting more irritated with himself than Mycroft.

"Dear lord, Gregory, I had to take the call. You know I would ignore it if I could." Annoyance had settled into Mycroft's voice as well. Greg could feel a row coming on, but he found he couldn't stop himself.

"Yeah, but I haven't seen you in- You know, forget it. I'm going to bed, so you can go run the fucking country." He dropped the mug a little harder than he'd planned and stormed out in the direction of their bedroom.

"Stop being a child, Gregory," Mycroft snapped. Greg froze, halfway up the stairs. Finally, he turned to face the younger man, who was glaring at him in annoyance.

"Seriously?" he yelled. Shaking his head, he stormed up the steps, went into the washroom, and slammed the door shut behind him. Glaring at everything in there, because suddenly everything was offending him, Greg turned the shower on and started to tug off his clothes. He threw them in a pile and leaned on the sink, glancing at himself in a mirror. Absently, he grabbed his toothbrush and started chewing on the bottom of it. Only upon noticing this did he yank it out and slam it down, groaning to himself, and turned to get into the shower.

He was so focused on the hot water beating down on his head that he didn't notice the door to the washroom opening. Tilting his head up, he let the water splash onto his face, eyes shut tight. Then, there were slender arms wrapping around his waist, causing him to jump. Turning, he glanced at the very naked body of his boyfriend, who had apparently snuck in and decided to join him in the shower.

"I'm sorry," Greg sighed, breaking the silence after a moment. Mycroft was resting his chin on his tan shoulder, and turned to press a kiss to his cheek.

"I am as well," Mycroft murmured, brushing his pointed nose along Greg's damp skin. "I do believe we picked a poor time to try and stop smoking together."

Greg couldn't help but chuckle. Maybe it had been a bad idea that they tried to stop smoking at the same time to begin with. They were both going through withdrawals, making their emotions very high. They rarely snapped at each other. It was most definitely the lack of nicotine in both their systems.

"Why did we decide to do this again?" he asked, raising his eyebrows curiously. He turned in Mycroft's arms so that they were facing one another, their chests pressed against each other. Greg gazed up at his partner with affection.

"Because _it's for our health_," came Mycroft's response, repeating the words Greg had said a few weeks ago. Glaring, Greg reached out to smack him with no force.

"Stop mocking me," he sighed. Mycroft shook his head and leaned down to kiss Greg gently. The kiss started slow, and picked up after a moment. They both hummed, gripping at each other's slick skin.

"Let us focus on much more pleasurable things, yes?" Mycroft whispered against Greg's lips. Greg managed to nod, nipping at the younger man's bottom lip gently.

"Sounds good to me, Myc." And they proceeded to have a wonderful shower, followed by an even more wonderful evening in bed.


	37. Day 37: A Flirtatious Swim

It was sunny and warm and wonderful out; a perfect setting for the day. Greg was enjoying his and Mycroft's time in Milan. He'd never been to Milan. What better way to experience it than on one's honeymoon?

Currently, they were stretched out on a boat, rocking lazily in the water. Mycroft was leaning with one arm propped on the edge, a book in his lap and his umbrella open and propped up behind him. His poor partner – not just partner, husband now – burned so easily in the sun that he couldn't go with out. His chest and feet were bare, but he still wore a nice pair of black trousers. Greg, on the other hand, was wearing nothing more than swim trunks and a pair of sunglasses. He sighed, grinning widely, and glanced over at the other man.

"Whatcha reading?" he asked lightheartedly, craning his neck to peer over at the younger man.

"Mmm?" Mycroft glanced up over the pages of his book. "Oh, it's an old Italian piece of literature; fables and the like. It was sitting in our suite."

"I bet I could give you something a lot more interesting to think about…" the older man said, leaning forward a bit. He had long since stopped wondering how Mycroft could do certain things, like reading fluent Italian. His husband was just a genius, and it was glorious..

"Is that so?" Mycroft asked, bookmarking his spot and shutting the book.

"Oh yeah. These lips," he nodded, pointing at his mouth. Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

"Yours lips, Gregory?" he asked, smirking.

"Naturally. I can kiss you so well you'll forget all about those Italian fables. About everything."

"How confident you are. Perhaps you should prove it to me," Mycroft said silkily, sitting up a bit straighter. He gazed at his husband with a challenging, sassy expression. Standing, Greg took the few careful steps over, closing the space between them on the boat. He was never one to back down from a challenge, especially when it involved anything intimate with Mycroft. He gazed down at the younger man, before bending at the waist and leaning down.

Mycroft tilted his head as if to meet the man's lips, practically batting his eyes at him, but the smirk he had previously worn grew even wider and he leaned to the side. Greg continued moving. His brown eyes flew open in surprise as he lost balance, yelping, and the next thing he knew he was in the water. Kicking his feet, he resurfaced and spun around to face the boat. Mycroft, still in the boat, was laughing, moving to lean back in his original position. Greg spit water out of his mouth and pouted a bit.

"Not cool, Myc," he said, reaching to grasp the edge of the boat a bit. Mycroft gazed down at him; pale eyes alight with amusement and love.

"Oh poor darling," the younger man cooed, with no sincerity at all. Greg poked his tongue out at him. He wasn't the least bit sorry, that was for sure.

"I am. I must be spoiled now. I could've drowned," Greg pretended to wail dramatically, throwing his head back and looking up at the sky. Mycroft shook his head and rolled his eyes at the older man's hysterics. Leaning forward slightly, he reached out with a slender hand and cupped Greg's cheek, stroking his wet, sun-kissed skin with his thumb.

"Oh husband mine," Mycroft said with much more care now. He smirked again. "Why don't you show me now?"

Mycroft leaned forward a bit more, and Greg pulled himself up a bit. Their lips connected in a gentle, meaningful kiss. Mycroft slid his fingers through Greg's damp, silvery hair, tilting his head to deepen the kiss a bit. Reaching out with his other hand, Greg cupped the back of the younger man's neck to hold him in place. The kiss slowed, and Greg's lips curled into a grin against his husband's. Mycroft could sense something had changed, and an alarm went off in his head. Before he could react, though, Greg tugged, grinning brightly as they pulled away from each other.

There was another loud yelp, followed by a splash, as Mycroft Holmes was tugged out of the boat and into the water as well. Payback was glorious, no matter what consequences were sure to follow.


	38. Day 38: Ice Cream

It was an unusually hot day in London. It was uncomfortable enough that Greg was wearing a tanktop, and even Mycroft wasn't dressed in his normal three-piece suits. He was still dressed much more properly than the majority of the other people they'd seen throughout the day, clad in black trousers and a button up dress shirt. Though, as they'd gone out, he had since rolled the sleeves of the shirt up to his elbows.

Currently, they were in a small pastry shoppe near their house, sitting at one of the smaller tables over in the corner. It was usually a lot less busy than it was today, though, along with pastries, they also sold ice cream, so he supposed it made sense. It was the reason they were here as well. They'd had to run a couple of errands and get some shopping done, so he had suggested swinging by as they made their way back. Mycroft had agreed fairly easily.

Greg had decided to go with a milkshake, while his partner had chosen the traditional ice cream cone. They sat in general, comfortable silence, though partially because Greg was a bit too distracted for much conversation.

The way Mycroft was eating that cone was utterly _sinful_. Watching his tongue slipping out and sliding along the curve of the ice cream was sending an all too familiar heat through the older man's gut. It was slow, moving from one side to the other, before retreating back into his mouth. Occasionally, some of the treat would get on his lips, requiring his tongue to slip back out and run along his lips to clean it up. Greg shivered.

"Gregory, did you hear me?" Mycroft asked, arching an eyebrow curiously. Greg blinked and forced his eyes up to meet his partner's.

"Huh?" he said, a bit stupidly. He could feel a blush creeping into his cheeks slowly.

"I was asking when dear Elizabeth was going to come stay with us again?" Mycroft repeated, looking amused.

"Ah, yes," Greg nodded, clearing his throat. His daughter was young enough to still deal with custody switching visits between himself and his ex-wife. "Probably next weekend."

Brown eyes slid back to the younger man's mouth as he ate more of his ice cream cone. Where it had started to melt, some of the residue melted onto his fingers. Mycroft switched hands and proceeded to lick it off. Greg groaned.

"Gregory?" he asked, raising both eyebrows now.

"You are driving me _crazy_, Myc," he sighed, trying to focus on his milkshake and not his growing erection. Mycroft started smirking.

"Is that so?" he asked silkily. Turning back to his ice cream, he consumed it again, even more slowly than before. Okay, now he was being deliberate. It was cruel. Reaching out over the table, Greg grabbed the hand in question and tugged it over. Brown eyes darkened in color as his pupils widened, letting his own tongue dart out to lick vanilla-flavored ice cream off him. Pale eyes widened across the table, his mouth parting a bit. It was Greg's turn to smirk, taking the entire digit into his mouth and sucking on it gently. As his tongue moved to drag across the pad of his finger, a soft noise escaped Mycroft.

"Let's go home," Greg whispered huskily, releasing his partner's hand and sitting back. Mycroft cleared his throat and nodded curtly.

"Yes. Let's."


	39. Day 39: Interrupted Date

"Where are you going?" Greg groaned as Sherlock was attempting to scamper off from him. It was very unlike the consulting detective to stop mid-deduction and get distracted like he just had.

"I just need to…talk about…_rent_," he was saying, clearly an excuse to get out of the conversation. Greg wasn't quite so stupid.

"I've still got questions for you," he started to complain, following Sherlock as he tried to walk away.

"Oh what **now**? I-I'm in shock, look. I've got a blanket." The young man held up a corner of the insanely orange blanket for emphasis.

"Sherlock!" Greg groaned, crossing his arms and getting more fed up by the minute. What was supposed to be a great night had turned to shit pretty fast and the damn detective was not helping his mood in the least.

"AND. I just caught you a serial killer," Sherlock continued to protest. He paused briefly, glancing to the side. "More or less."

Greg was silent for a moment, tilting his chin up as he regarded Sherlock. He was keeping something from him, that much was obvious. He'd been around the detective long enough to know when he was skirting around an issue. He regarded him, taking in the fact that his stance was 100%, before finally nodding.

"Okay. We'll pull you in tomorrow; off you go," he sighed in defeat. After years of working with Sherlock, he knew when to pick his battles, after all. He watched him duck under the police tape and wander over to that John Watson that had apparently been brave enough to become his flatmate, and sighed as an officer came over to him and started informing him of the situation.

He only half listened to what was going on, responding as he needed to. This was not the way he'd wanted to spend his night. He had plans. He was supposed to have gone on his first date with Mycroft Holmes tonight. They'd had it set up for over a week now. Finally, a night and a dinner where Sherlock was not the topic of conversation, or the reason for them meeting. It was supposed to be a night of their own, getting to know each other, seeing if the attraction they carried for one another might end up going to something more. A wonderful date, which got interrupted by Sherlock… Like most things in Greg's life, it seemed.

He got deep into conversation with Sally Donovan, trying not to sulk too obviously, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he practically gaped at the sight on the other side of the taped off scene. Sherlock and John Watson had been stopped by an all too familiar black car, and… _Mycroft_. His breath got caught in his throat, and he stopped bothering to pay attention to whatever his Sergeant was saying. He raised a hand and grasped her bicep gently, finally turning back to her.

"I'll be back, yeah? Take care of some of this cleanup."

He jogged away before Sally could raise any concerns or protests, ducking under the tape and making his way across the pavement. He picked up the pace, trying to get closer before the politician ducked back into his car.

"Mycroft!" he finally called out, causing the man to stop in his tracks and turn to face him. Greg broke out into a grin, finally catching up, and he slowed to stand in front of him.

"Good evening Detective Inspector," he was greeted as professionally as ever.

"Greg, please. Didn't expect to see you here. I'm…sorry about having to cancel. Sherlock…"

"It is quite alright. I am aware of the challenges my dear brother can cause to anyone close enough to him."

Greg ran a hand through his hair, shifting his weight.

"You came to check on him?" he asked, raising his eyebrows curiously. He assumed so, though he secretly hoped he showed up with a drive of theirs as well. Mycroft hummed, smiling softly.

"Of course. John Watson is a curious individual, staying so close to him," the taller man said, moving his umbrella from one hand to the other.

"Would you be opposed to getting some coffee?" Greg finally asked, working up the courage after a few silent moments. It was too late for the dinner they'd planned, but if they could still spend some time together, he could classify that as a victory.

"Yes, I do believe that is a good idea," Mycroft agreed with a nod, smiling a bit more…genuinely, if Greg could put a word to it. He motioned at the open door to the black car next to him. "After you, Gregory."


	40. Day 40: Kidnapping

When Mycroft woke, all he knew was pain. His brow furrowed, but he refrained from grunting as he started to come to. Everything that had occurred came back to him tremendously fast. While he'd been aware of the hazards of his job, even though he hardly did fieldwork, no amount of training can truly prepare an individual for the moment they are kidnapped and held hostage. However, he knew to remain calm, and he excelled at doing so, no matter the situation.

He was not blindfolded, which surprised him slightly. Either his kidnappers weren't very bright, or they were confident enough that he would not survive to the endgame. One option was a bit more comforting than the other. Taking in a deep breath through his nose, he glanced around the room with assessing eyes. There were two more men tied to chairs as he was, suits crumpled and bloodied. They both still seemed to be unconscious. A look down confirmed that he was crumpled as well, but he didn't find blood. Interesting.

A hefty man stormed in, carrying a large knife in his hand. He noticed Mycroft was awake and strode over, speaking to him angrily in Russian. Mycroft watched him, understanding every word of course, but said nothing. Even as the man started waving the knife and demanding intel, threatening his life, Mycroft did not speak.

He made no noise until the blade was drug across his skin, causing him to cry out at the hot pain.

His interrogation/torture went on for what felt like hours. He kept everything in until the pain became too much to bear, and only then did he cry out again. As the man finally stepped back, Mycroft was panting, covered in his own blood, sweat, and tears. His head was swimming, and it was a bit more difficult to concentrate. He wasn't able to accurately assess the damage, though he had clearly already started to lose a lot of blood.

Hours turned into what he assumed were days. He would continuously be interrogated, and then tortured when he did not confess any of their desired information. They really were amateurs if they thought he would give up valuable information so easily. Unfortunately, he could not see a way out. He began to doubt a better outcome, thinking that the only way he'd be getting out of here was in a body bag. However, he refused to let himself dwell on such thoughts for too long. No matter what, no matter how bad things got or how much pain he was in, one thought cut through everything else like a hot knife through butter.

_Gregory would save him._

His beloved partner was intelligent, and the best Detective Inspector that New Scotland Yard could hope to have. While he always got pushed aside by the ridiculous light his dear little brother gave off, Gregory was not someone to be shrugged at. No one would work harder or longer or better to find this location than he would. Even if they had not been romantically and intimately involved for almost two years now, it would be no different. Luckily, the only change to be had was that if anything, Gregory would work even harder and faster to get him back home and in his comforting arms.

One day, an undetermined amount of time later, consciousness was getting more and more difficult to maintain. The blood loss was significant, and even if he didn't die at the hands of his kidnappers, he surely would because of that. Every inch of him ached, and what no longer ached he couldn't feel at all. Even though he still continued to remind himself that Gregory was coming for him, a piece of him was starting to accept that fact that he was most likely going to die here. All the facts were lining up, and he supposed it was inevitable.

Just as those thoughts were creeping in, he heard a strange commotion from up above. His brow furrowed in confusion. There was a crash, and some yelling. What was…

The door to the room burst open. Mycroft jumped, on instinct. He tried to force his eyes open, but his vision was really blurry as he looked around. Someone was coming into the room. Thinner than his kidnapper. Coming to him. Touching his face. Talking? He attempted to concentrate even more, and finally things began to register.

"G-gregory…" he rasped weakly, trying to reach out. He could barely move, but he wanted to touch his lover so bad.

"I've got you Myc," he heard that gruff voice saying. "I'm getting you out of here. Taking you home. It's all okay now."

He knew this. He didn't need to hear those words to know he was okay. Gregory was here. Yet, hearing the words still made him feel a bit better. His partner was untying his restraints and pulling him into his arms. Mycroft turned into him, burying his face in his familiar, tanned neck. Smelled so good… He sighed, telling himself he'd apologize later for getting blood all over him.

He found himself not able to maintain consciousness any longer. He was exhausted. But it was okay. Gregory _had_ found him. He was going to be okay.


	41. Day 41: Happy Birthday

Greg was nervous. This was the first birthday of Mycroft's that the two of them had been involved with each other, and he had wanted to do something for him. Granted, Mycroft didn't seem one to care for the event. Apparently that ran in the family, which made him wonder if they ever celebrated birthdays. That, or they were over celebrated and the two intelligent Holmes boys couldn't stand it. He had yet to find out which.

He didn't have a big production in mind for this very reason, but he had still wanted to do something for him. He loved him, after all, and this was one of the ways to show this every year. So he stood at Mycroft's flat, a small box in his hand, shifting and taking deep breaths.

He wasn't sure what he was nervous about. Of course Mycroft would enjoy whatever he had planned. He always did, no matter how unorthodox it was for the younger man. It was one of the ways he loved him back. So finally, huffing softly, he raised a hand to knock on the door just as it opened.

"Ah, Gregory," his partner smiled, pretending to be pleasantly surprised to see him. Greg couldn't help but grin. Mycroft probably knew he was there the whole time, and how long he'd been out. So, nodding, he held the box out in front of him. Mycroft's eyebrows raised in more genuine surprise this time, staring at the box as if he didn't know what to do with it.

"Well? You gonna take it?" he asked, laughing softly. He jostled the box for emphasis. "It _is_ for you, you know."

Mycroft's mouth parted in an 'oh' and he nodded, reaching out to finally take it. He took a step back, gesturing for Greg to enter, and together they walked into the living room and settled down on the sofa. Greg curled his legs under him, turning towards the younger man, and waiting patiently for him to open it.

"Should I wait?" Mycroft asked somewhat hesitantly. Greg shook his head.

"Nah, go ahead!" he urged, waving his hand.

Nodding, Mycroft went about opening the box, a curious fascination on his face. The first thing he pulled out was a tube of lube, to which he gave Greg an exasperated glance. Greg laughed; poking his tongue out and muttering that they were almost out, but never mind that and keep going. The next thing he pulled out of the box was another box, small and slender. Upon opening it, there was a sleek fountain pen. Mycroft's eyes widened.

"Gregory…" he muttered, uncapping it to look at the tip. "This is lovely. It's the exact brand I prefer. How did you-?"

"Hey. A boyfriend's supposed to know these things," Greg smiled.

There were a few other things in the box: a silver tie clip, some nice polish for the handle of his umbrella, and an ID that Sherlock had somehow stolen from him a while back. Mycroft burst out laughing at that last one, which made Gregory light up excitedly. Reaching over, the younger man cupped his partner's cheek and pulled him close to kiss him sweetly.

"Thank you," he spoke against Greg's lips. Greg hummed. "It's all so lovely. And surprisingly practical."

"Did you expect me to get you something ridiculous that you'd put somewhere and never look at again?" he asked in amusement. Mycroft smirked.

"No, I suppose not." He leaned in and initiated another kiss. "Really, Gregory, _thank you_."

"You're very welcome, darling," Greg smiled, running a hand through his hair affectionately. He brushed the tips of their noses together before pulling back and patting his knee. "Now. Dinner. And then after, some rather amazing birthday sex."

"Oh my, that all sounds wonderful," Mycroft said, smirk widening. They stood, threading their fingers together and departing the flat to head on to dinner.


	42. Day 42: Phone Sex

**The title obviously suggests the content. Very NSFW chapter. I almost blushed a bit writing it, LOL.**

_Come to mine tonight. It's been too long, much to both our desires._

Those words kept echoing in Greg's head. How was he supposed to concentrate on his work when Mycroft had given him THAT kind of invitation? He groaned, leg bouncing up and down almost consistently, staring at the paperwork in front of him without reading anything written on it.

Mycroft had been out of the country for almost an entire month, and it had basically driving the DI insane. It was the longest the two of them had been apart since they had started officially dating. He'd missed him horribly, and while they talked on the phone at least every other night, it wasn't the same. So tonight he was going over for dinner, and he knew he would be sleeping over. Honestly, dinner was the last thing he cared about. He sat there, chewing on the tip of his pen, trying to ignoring the erection he was sporting as he kept thinking about what all they would do later tonight.

He… couldn't wait until later tonight. Unfortunately, there was no way he'd be able to get out of the office and pay his lover a visit. Sally had come down with a nasty virus and had been unable to come in, so he'd gotten buried under her duties as well as his own. He was swamped, and he would be stuck here at his desk until he could finally leave later that evening. Huffing, he stood, and walked to shut the blinds and lock the door to his office, getting an idea. As he sat back down, he reached for his mobile and fired off a text.

_/What are you wearing right now?/_

He leaned back in his chair, knees falling open as he waited for a reply. His free hand rested on his stomach, fiddling absently with the button of his trousers.

_/A suit, Gregory. Why? -MH/_

_/I can't wait until tonight. I need you. Call me?/_

_/I'm in a meeting. –MH/_

Greg huffed, and being shameless as he was, snapped a picture of his clothed crotch and his obvious hard-on.

_/This is your fault, you know. Help me take care of it. Please./_

He smirked triumphantly as, after a moment, his phone began to ring with his partner's name on the caller ID. He lifted the phone up to his ear while popping open the trouser button.

"Glad you called," he whispered deeply. There was a small inhale come from the other line before he spoke.

"Goodness, Gregory," Mycroft said in his normal, silky voice. "Seems you've got quite the problem on your hands."

"Mmmm, I do. Help me?" he begged.

"Are you requesting phone sex, darling?" came the return question, though Mycroft had lowered his voice in that dangerous, sexy way that proved he intended to help after all.

"Yes," Greg sighed. "I'm lowering my zipper."

"Touch yourself," Mycroft commanded, and Greg eagerly complied. He sighed as he wrapped his hand around himself and began moving in small, slow strokes. He let his head fall back against his chair with a soft thud, being greatly encouraged by the smooth words being spoken to him on the other side of the line.

Mycroft began describing very inappropriate things, which heightened the heated arousal that was pooling deep in his gut. He began panting softly, stroking and teasing himself and picturing how his hand would be replaced with his partner's later in the evening.

"You're close," Mycroft purred after a few minutes. Greg's breath hitched, his pace stuttering slightly before he tried to regain control.

"Yes," he breathed, biting his lip.

"Come for me, Gregory."

Greg's eyes shot open wide, and he released his phone to cradle on his shoulder. Reaching out, he hurriedly grabbed at the small stack of napkins that he had brought with him from the coffee shoppe that morning, knocking over his empty mug and some papers falling to the floor. Hearing Mycroft speak those words sent him over the edge, and he just barely pulled the napkins close as his release crashed through him. He groaned softly, twitching and panting harshly, swallowing as he came down from his orgasm. Glancing down, he saw proudly that none of his mess got on his suit, so no one would know the wiser.

"Mmmmm, Myc," he sighed, his muscles relaxing. Mycroft chuckled softly.

"See you tonight, Gregory."

There was a click before either of them could attempt a proper goodbye, but Greg couldn't be bothered by it. He dropped his mobile on his desk, closing his eyes again and slumping down in his chair with the biggest grin on his face.

"Can't wait," he muttered to himself, already feeling tons better.


	43. Day 43: Mycroft Appalled Him

It wasn't until after Mycroft had stormed out of 221B in a huff and gotten into his car that he'd noticed the pain. He hissed through his teeth and furrowed his brow, glancing down at his aching arm with a sigh. If the feeling and the lack of movement had him deducing correctly… It seemed that his dear, extremely high brother, had just broken his arm.

_Fantastic._

Daily life was exceedingly difficult when one's arm was in a cast and sling. Mycroft had been stubborn at first, refusing assistance from anyone who offered or started to get that pitying look on their face as he tried to continue working normally. The icy stare the received in return usually made them look the other way, and he attempted to keep going about his daily routine.

It was difficult. He was getting things done a lot slower not having full use of both arms. However, he _was_ Mycroft Holmes, and still managed to achieve all the correct tasks on any given day. Even if he slept less because he needed the extra time. Even if his broken arm continued to throb tremendously as he pushed the boundaries of what all it could do.

"Christ Myc, stop," his partner, Gregory, sighed one morning as Mycroft was going through the motions of getting dressed. It was the worst start to the day, that was for sure. Getting on his waistcoat and ties were by far one of the most difficult things he could have imagined. He blinked in surprise, freezing with his waistcoat in his good hand, and glanced over to the older man, who was still lying in bed.

"Apologies Gregory. Go back to sleep." His grunts must have woken him up… Mycroft frowned at himself over it. Gregory shook his head, sliding out of bed and walking over to where he was standing (quite naked, as he decidedly never slept in pajamas like the politician did).

"No. I'm helping you, and you will bloody accept it," he challenged, his deep voice rough with sleep. His brown eyes were very attentive as he took his waistcoat and moved around his body, gently nudging his arms as he put it on. Then, he picked up his tie and wrapped it around his neck, stepping close as his tan hands worked on tying it properly.

"You shouldn't have to…" Mycroft huffed softly, lips pursed together as he stood by helplessly. He couldn't even dress himself normally, and it was ridiculous. Gregory just shook his head again, before kissing him and patting his chest once he was clothed.

"Myc, darling. How good of a boyfriend would I be if I let you keep struggling?" he asked, gazing up into his eyes with a soft smile. "Besides, if you keep straining it like this, it'll take longer to heal. Please. Let me help you, okay?"

Mycroft hadn't want to, of course. He'd never needed help, even when he was a young boy. However, he'd seen the point about his arm refusing to heal, so he reluctantly agreed. Naturally, he had continued about his work as best as possible, but when he got home, his boyfriend had taken away all responsibility from him. The older man basically shooed him into the living room and onto the sofa, which had made Mycroft a bit disgruntled for a while.

"Honestly, Gregory. I have one broken arm, I'm not an invalid," he snapped one evening. He wasn't so much irritated with his boyfriend as he was with his situation, and how long it was taking for the cast to be able to get taken off. He tried glaring when tea was brought to him, but took it anyway.

"Mycroft," Gregory said softly, gazing down at him with those lovely brown eyes. Mycroft blinked. "I realize this, but it gives me a chance to dote on you. Something I'm not able to do often. I know how much it hurts – I've had enough broken arms in my life to know – and I just want to make you comfortable, okay?"

Mycroft blinked, frowning down at his tea. He sighed softly and nodded. He supposed he could see his boyfriend's stance on that. It was much the same kind of mentality when he was sick and Mycroft insisted on taking care of him.

"Forgive me. I'm just exhausted dealing with it," he admitted, sipping the hot liquid. Smiling, his darling Gregory sat down on the sofa next to him and pulled them into a very comfortable cuddle. Mycroft sighed, his muscles relaxing as his body sank back into his other half's. Gregory began pressing soft kisses to the top of his head.

"I know, love," he whispered, laying his cheek on the top of Mycroft's head. The politician closed his eyes and sighed again. "It's okay. Just drink your tea, okay? Then I'll finish up your laundry and draw you a bath, how's that sound?"

Mycroft sighed.

"It's sounds lovely, Gregory. Thank you."


	44. Day 44: Don't Be Embarrassed

Mycroft always slept in pajamas. It wasn't an unusual thing, sure; Greg knew plenty of people that slept in pajamas. He just wasn't one of them. At the most he would sleep in his pants, though he slept nude quite frequently. He was just comfortable that way. So living with a partner who was by far quite the opposite had been an interesting adjustment.

When Mycroft changed from one set of clothing to another, he never did it in front of Greg. He always either went to the washroom connected to their bedroom, or stepped behind a Japanese dressing screen he had in the corner. Mycroft Holmes was a man of his habits, of course, so he hadn't said anything at first. But the two of them _were_ sexually intimate, so it wasn't as if he hadn't seen the younger man naked. Even after their sexual acts, Mycroft hardly stuck around for cuddling before stepping into the washroom and then getting dressed.

Finally, one night as he was sprawled out on the bed in post-coital bliss, he couldn't resist from bringing it up. He watched lazily as Mycroft climbed out of bed and began making his way to the toilet.

"Why don't you ever stay?" he called after him softly, causing the politician to hesitate and glance over his shoulder. Greg wasn't hurt, of course. Nothing about it offended him or made him think that there was an issue between the two of them. He was just genuinely confused.

"I… Apologies, Gregory. I hope that you are not insulted, because that is not my intention," Mycroft said, instead of answering the question. He turned back towards the bed a bit and held his clothes closer to his body.

"Don't apologize, Myc," he smiled, pushing himself up on his shoulders and shaking his head. "I'm just curious."

"I am unused to being nude for longer than is necessary."

There was a hesitance in him, something that made Greg want to uncover whatever it is. He'd never really seen Mycroft feel uncomfortable about something, and yet he was in this moment. Greg reached his hand out.

"Come here," he requested affectionately. Pale eyes shifted down to the offered hand, but Mycroft didn't move. Greg wiggled his fingers. "Please?"

It took a second, but Mycroft finally agreed and made his way back over to the bed. He got on it and sat down, setting his clothes on the floor next to him. Grinning, Greg reached up to pull him back down and wrap his arms around him. He kissed the younger man's forehead softly and breathed deeply.

"After-sex cuddles are some of the best cuddles," he mumbled against Mycroft's skin. "You should try it sometime."

"Should I?" Mycroft asked, his voice light in mock question, and Greg didn't need to see it to know he was smirking. His body was less tense, however, so he called it a victory. Moving his head to the side, he ran a hand slowly down his partner's long back and kissed his pale shoulder. He sighed softly, before his brown eyes were drawn to something he hadn't really noticed before. Mycroft's shoulders, neck, and back were _covered_ in freckles. He stared, blinking, utterly fascinated.

"How…how have I never noticed these before?" he whispered, bringing his hand back up to trace along the large array of spots going across his skin. Mycroft instantly went rigid against him and attempted to pull away. Greg's brow furrowed. "Myc?"

He tried looking at his lover's face, but Mycroft seemed to be avoiding that at all costs. Why was the most confident man in all of England avoiding his gaze? He shifted, putting his hand gently under his chin and lifting so they were looking at each other. Mycroft's cheeks were flush. Was he _embarrassed?_

"Myc, what is it? They're just freckles, love. I've even got a few."

"That's just it, Gregory. You have **a few**. Mine are ridiculous." In a huff, Mycroft pushed himself to sit back up and face away from Greg. The older man just stared at his back, admiring the freckles in question again, and at Mycroft's hunched up shoulders. It was truly baffling how he could be so insecure about his body image. Greg had never known a sexier man in his entire life. So, shifting, he sat up as well and wrapped his arms around Mycroft, propping his chin up on his shoulder.

"They are certainly not ridiculous," he countered. "They're wonderful. And they're **you**, Mycroft. I love them."

Mycroft scoffed, rolling his eyes. Smiling, Greg began pressing soft kisses along his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked softly.

"Kissing your freckles, of course," he said, the 'duh' a silent implication. "I told you I loved them. And I want to spend the rest of our lives kissing them, so I'm starting now. Don't be embarrassed, Myc. There's no need."

Slowly, Mycroft began to relax again. The kisses helped. Then, finally, he asked a question that made Greg's heart sing.

"Would you…like to accompany me in the shower, Gregory?"

They had never showered together. Greg had been fantasizing about it for _ages_.

"God yes," he breathed, eagerly getting out of bed and following the younger man into the washroom.


	45. Day 45: Valentine's Day

When Greg Lestrade did something, he never did it halfway. It was part of his charm, or so he told himself. Though, it had continuously gotten good results over the years, so why change now? He thought about that as he went through his mental checklist, wandering about Mycroft's kitchen with purpose.

It was their first Valentine's Day together. He wanted it to be special. His partner, of course, had said nothing about the day, and Greg hadn't really planned on him to. He had the sneaking suspicion every other Valentine's Day that had occurred in the lifetime of Mycroft Holmes had been just another day. This was why Greg wanted it to be special. While he didn't necessarily buy into all the mass consumerist view of the holiday, he still felt it was a good day to make your other half feel really fucking loved.

Mycroft would be home from the office soon, and if Greg timed it correctly, dinner would be just about finishing up when he walked in the door. He hoped. So as food cooked, he set out the flower arrangement he'd gotten, thumbed through potential music options, set out candles in the dining room and bedroom, and got out the bath supplies he'd picked up earlier in the week. Most of it was a bit cliché, he supposed, but he didn't care.

Just as he'd planned, he heard Mycroft's front door open as the timer counted down from ten minutes. Grinning, he pulled off the apron he'd been wearing (mainly to keep his nice clothes from getting messed up with food), and went to greet him at the door.

"Welcome home, Myc," he grinned, holding his hands out and snaking them around the younger man's waist, pulling him close for a slow kiss. He could practically feel Mycroft's eyebrows rise in surprise, even as he kissed back, his arms going around Greg's shoulders.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company right as I got home?" Mycroft asked after they pulled away, smiling. Then, his head tilted slightly and he sniffed. "Are you cooking?"

"I am," Greg confirmed with a nod, leaning in and kissing him again. "I'm spoiling you tonight. Come on."

Threading their fingers together, they walked into the dining room, where Mycroft's eyes immediately went to the flowers on the middle of the table.

"What is…" he started, trailing off as he glanced at them. "What is all this?"

"Valentine's Day, love," Greg smiled. "Hence, spoiling. Now sit. Dinner's almost done."

He kissed Mycroft on the forehead as the man sat, and went to get their food onto plates. They sat in comfortable silence for the majority of their meal, sharing a lovely glass of wine and eating their fill, as well as dessert (to which Mycroft had started to protest, but Greg was very convincing, and the satisfying noises the politician made while eating it were just _sinful_).

After dinner, there was some cuddling on the sofa, which turned into lazy snogging. Greg didn't let them stay there too long, though, because he wasn't quite done. So he finally pulled away, heading to the washroom to draw up a bath. With bubbles. And candles. And more wine. As he led Mycroft in, the younger man glanced at everything and couldn't help but sigh.

"Honestly, darling, you didn't need to…" he started to protest, though he was smiling. Greg grinned while unbuttoning his dress shirt, placing kisses to his pale chest as it was revealed.

"Spoiling. Get in."

After both undressing, the men climbed into the bath together, Greg sitting behind and Mycroft leaning against him with a happy sigh. There was more cuddling, more snogging, and some more intense foreplay (because really, it was difficult not to when they bathed together). They actually played in the bubbles, making shapes on each other's faces and shoulders and laughing at each other gleefully. It was almost hard to believe both men were in their forties. Greg also couldn't help but stop and gaze when Mycroft was laughing at him, because to see him laughing so wonderfully and genuine was breathtaking. The way his face lit up, the way the bridge of his long nose and the corners of his piercing eyes crinkled with laughter lines… _Gorgeous_. And Greg was lucky enough to be able to witness it.

To say they made love that night was a vast understatement. Greg worshipped every inch of Mycroft's body. Sure, the man stared at him blankly over more candles and rose petals on the bed (so sue him, he was going all out for Christ sakes), but he could tell that Mycroft secretly enjoyed every second of it. They made love, and it was slow, and it was glorious, and together they peaked and collapsed on the bed, panting harshly and gripping one another like their lives depended on it.

Greg was in love. Not like he didn't know before, but as they continued to lie there, holding one another and kissing sweetly, whispering nothing important to each other, and laughing some more, Greg knew. He was going to spend the rest of his life with this man. He just knew.

"Happy first Valentine's Day," he whispered as sleep was starting to creep him. Mycroft hummed sweetly, turning his head to brush the tips of their vastly different noses.

"The first of many," he said in return, leaning in to kiss Gregory as he fell asleep in his arms.


	46. Day 46: Come to Dinner

Mycroft Holmes' interests laid with his little brother. They always had, and they always would. He cared about him deeply, after all. Even in their later years, with a relationship as strained as theirs was now, those interests never wavered. He was always looking out for Sherlock, always making sure he eased his way as best he could. No matter the methods, no matter the cause, it was important to him that Sherlock was cared for.

So as John Watson had moved out of 221B, found himself a female companion, and _tied the knot_ (as it were), plans needed to be set into motion. Sherlock had found a lifeline in John, something Mycroft could see on occasion, yet had been completely baffled by. Now, that lifeline had been severed. Sure, the good doctor did his best to keep their relations up, but they all knew it wouldn't be the same. Anyone who believed such was fooling himself.

The plan was easy enough. Through a string of events and crimes (none of which actually done by anyone in his employ, but crimes were easy enough to come across in London), Mycroft set in motion for Sherlock to begin working very closely again with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. The older man had been an obvious choice, being that he had such a history with the Holmes family. Lestrade had known Sherlock, and Mycroft by extension, so much longer than John Watson ever had. On top of that, he had already experienced Sherlock at his worst. **AND** helped kick the destructive drug habit. Yes, it was the most logical pathway.

It worked. To an extent. However, it didn't progress to the level it had with John. They did not go to dinner together. They didn't move in together, though Mycroft hadn't expected anything that drastic. Though, in working on cases, they did spend a little more time together. Usually at Baker Street. As if Sherlock would work anywhere else.

It was moving slowly, however. That should have been frustrating for the elder Holmes, who was used to getting results at much quicker speeds, but… it wasn't. He found that it was actually more of a relief. In his plans to get them closer together, and observe them spending more time with one another, he began to feel something a bit unusual for him. He was jealous. He had scoffed at the idea at first, but no, he definitely was.

The jealousy was not over Lestrade, however. No, it was over Sherlock. Here he was, trying to push his brother and the Detective Inspector closer together, when in reality he wanted the chance to be closer with said Detective Inspector. Mycroft had always acknowledged the man's attractiveness and had even been impressed with some of his methods and results, but he never expected this kind of emotional attachment.

Of course, when Mycroft Holmes set his mind to something, he got it done. That's how he found himself standing at Baker Street, leaning on his umbrella, before entering and starting to make his way up the stairs. In his other hand was a file, a reason he gave himself to show up while the two men were inside working. Sherlock would see right through it immediately. That, however, was not the goal.

Two heads looked up as he entered the flat and cleared his throat. Lestrade gave him a look of surprise, mixed with something else he always tended to look at him with. It was an expression Mycroft hadn't had the time to deduce yet, which was infuriating. It never lasted long enough, and it only seemed to occur when directed towards him. Sherlock was neutral as ever. Sharp blue eyes saw the file, and the younger brother sighed in exhaustion and stood.

"No need to even bring that up," he drawled, waving a hand lazily. "I'm going to work on an experiment."

Sherlock turned, heading for his bedroom.

"Sherlock, what about-" Lestrade had started to say, but was silenced with a slamming door. Mycroft smirked a bit. He would have to think of a way to thank his dear brother later.

"Detective Inspector," he greeted. The older man's attention turned back to him, where it rightfully should be. Yes, he should have been trying to do this from the beginning.

"Mr. Holmes," he returned, standing. The two of them always seemed to slip back and fourth from formal to first name basis. Mycroft set the folder down and stepped forward. He was tired of postponing things. These months of trying to get Sherlock closer with Lestrade took away his patience, leaving him ready to get the proper results.

"Come to dinner with me," he said, reaching up and placing a slender finger under Lestrade's scruffy chin. Brown eyes widened and full lips parted, and Mycroft found himself staring, wanting to take that bottom lip in between his teeth and bite possessively.

"I, um…" Lestrade turned back towards the bedroom door. Mycroft directed his gaze back to him.

"It wasn't so much an invitation, Gregory. You will come to dinner. I do believe you've been wanting to for a while, as have I. I would very much like to treat you to a meal. For starters."

His voice was smooth, sultry, and inviting. Lestrade's pupils dilated in response. Mycroft smiled. _Victory_.

"Well," the Detective Inspector said, clearing his throat and reaching out to grasp Mycroft's silk tie loosely. "What are you waiting for then?"


	47. Day 47: Football

"Come _on_ Arsenal, bloody score already!" Greg shouted, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. He collapsed back into the sofa, sighing in aggravation, and ran a hand through his silvery hair. He remained silent for a moment, eyes glued to the screen, before groaning at something else that had occurred.

"They can't hear you, darling," Mycroft commented after a moment. The politician was stretched out across the length of the sofa, his long legs curled around his partner and on his lap. In his own lap sat his laptop, which he had been typing away on. Neither man had to leave the house for work today, so they resolved to spend the day together (something they unfortunately never got to do). Of course, Greg's favorite football team was playing in a tournament that very same day, and he'd wanted so badly to watch it. Mycroft, who could care less about the sport, resolved to remain in the room so they could still be in each other's company. Even if his boyfriend's rowdy behavior was almost causing him to rethink that decision.

"They're making stupid mistakes," Greg groaned, letting his head fall back in frustration. He loved Arsenal, he truly did. But it was hard being an Arsenal fan. They lost… a lot. This season had been exciting because they'd been doing so well, apart from a couple of poorly scored games against Liverpool, and here they were at a Cup game and not doing so great. Greg was decked out in his gear too: a team kit, red socks, and a red and white scarf hanging loosely around his neck. "They can so easily win this, so it's infuriating seeing them botch it up so damn badly."

Mycroft was half listening. He cared about the older man, though he didn't care about the hobby. So he hummed where appropriate, going back to his typing. Since it was a relaxing day, he had chosen not to wear a three-piece suit. Instead, he was dressed down in just his trousers and a white button up, with the top three buttons undone. This had, of course, been something done by Greg during a rather mischievous make out session earlier that morning. Something Mycroft was want to repeat currently, if only to distract him from an apparently distressing match.

The rest of the quarter was spent with Greg feeling frustrated and irritated. Half time was called and he extracted himself to get a beer. He decided to make a quick cup of tea while he was in there, and brought it back into the living room to hand to Mycroft, who abandoned his laptop briefly to take it.

"Thank you, Gregory," the younger man smiled genuinely, before taking a sip and humming at the taste. Greg smiled in adoration as he drank his beer. The moment he sat down, Mycroft's legs returned to their state on his lap. With his free hand, Greg began lightly massaging one of them.

"I'm glad you're in here with me. Thank you. I know you don't care for football," Greg smiled, squeezing Mycroft's shin affectionately.

"Yes, but I care for you, and your company, which I am determined to keep on a day that will actually allow us to."

"I could teach you."

"I am well aware of the mechanics behind the game," Mycroft commented, arching an eyebrow. "I just don't care for it to hold my attention."

Piercing pale eyes swept over Greg's form, causing the older man to blush a bit at the attention. A smirk started to appear on Mycroft's face, one Greg knew all too well, and he blinked.

"Something _else_, however, would hold my attention quite nicely," he said, putting his laptop and teacup on the floor. Sitting up straight, he shifted and crawled onto Greg's lap, straddling him. Leaning in, he kissed his boyfriend heatedly. The kiss was returned, even if it was slightly delayed due to Greg's surprise. His free hand gripped at the material of his shirt tightly. Then, after a moment, Mycroft rolled his hips, creating friction between them that made Greg break the kiss with a gasp.

"_Christ_," he groaned, letting his head fall back against the sofa again (though for a much nicer reason this time). Mycroft took this as an invitation to start kissing his exposed neck. Greg yelped a bit as he received a small bite, causing him to chew on his own lip.

After a few moments more, the game started back up. Mycroft straightened, gazing down at Greg, before climbing off him and returning to how he was normally sitting. He picked his laptop up again and resumed working, as if they hadn't just been making out and rutting against each other like teenagers. It took Greg a few shaky minutes to curb his arousal, taking time to glare at the naughty man that he was so in love with, before finally his attention was back on the game.

He cursed and cheered and drank. And Mycroft sat next to him, a permanent small, satisfied smile on his lips for the rest of the match.


	48. Day 48: Fish and Chips

"I just don't understand how you can eat that stuff," Mycroft sighed, eyeing Greg's plate warily. The older man glanced up, a chip in his hand, and he shrugged.

"Fish and chips are delicious, Myc. You'd get it if you'd actually try it," he countered, pointing at the politician with the chip in his hand before popping it in his mouth and chewing. Mycroft shook his head, picking up his cup of tea and sipping on it gently. The two of them had both been able to step away from their offices to get lunch together. They'd gone to a small shoppe near New Scotland Yard that had seriously the best fish and chips near here. Greg ordered them every time he came by. Mycroft, unsurprisingly, had gotten tea and nothing else.

"I keep telling you that you don't have to diet," Greg said after a moment, sitting back in his chair. "You're not eating."

"I am not," Mycroft responded, turning the teacup around in his hands, watching it absently. He released a soft sigh. "I merely wanted to enjoy your company. I am not hungry."

"Doesn't mean you shouldn't try to eat. You Holmes boys, I swear. Food is not an enemy to your bodies, you know."

"I am not quite as extreme as Sherlock," Mycroft chuckled. "I am just not hungry."

Greg shook his head and sighed. He ate a few more chips and then a piece of fish, the two of them enjoying each other's company in comfortable silence. It was something they were able to do quite often with each other, whether it was when they were eating somewhere, or if they were home lying on the sofa. After a little bit, though, Greg decided to revisit the topic at hand.

"I'm seriously about to order you some," he said, motioning to his food. Mycroft sighed.

"Even if I _were_ hungry, Gregory darling, I have no desire to eat fish and chips," he said, giving him that pointed look. Greg, however, was a very stubborn man. Getting up, he did just as he threatened, ordering another plate of fish and chips for his partner. Never before had he gotten Mycroft to eat the food, but it wasn't quite as disgustingly bad as the posh man tended to think. Greg had been eating it his whole life and turned out just fine. Today was the day, he was determined. He was going to get him to eat it.

Sitting back down, he dropped the plate in front of Mycroft, who eyed its contents warily.

"Go on then," Greg said, waving at the plate the younger man was still staring at the plate as if it was going to poison him. He crossed his arms and tilted his chin stubbornly. "Not gonna let you leave until you try it, Myc. Come on. For me? It's really not as bad as you're letting yourself believe."

Mycroft glanced at his partner, only to be staring into those large brown eyes that he always found difficult to say no to. It was an evil tactic, most certainly. With a sigh, Mycroft's shoulders sagged and he nodded. Greg grinned in victory, watching as the politician reached for the silverware sitting next to him. His grin twitched a bit, and he blinked.

"What are you…doing?" he asked as Mycroft picked up a fork.

"As you requested, of course," Mycroft said, staring at him.

"With that?" Greg continued, staring at the fork in his hand. Mycroft looked at it as well.

"Naturally," he said hesitantly. "With what else would I eat?"

Greg raised a hand to cover his mouth. After a moment, though, he couldn't hold back, and started laughing. Mycroft sighed, clearly irritated at the older man, and set the fork down forcefully.

"Myc, honey, no. It's meant to be eaten with your hands, love," he said in between laughter.

"My hands? Oh good lord, no. Not this greasy stuff."

"I'm _telling_ you, it's not that bad. Especially not here. Now please put the fork down and just eat."

Mycroft was clearly irritated. Were the man a cat, he'd be fluffed up as he glared at the whole circumstance. However, he did end up setting the fork down and resting his wrists on the table in front of him as he stared at the food again. Greg controlled his laughing and waited patiently.

Finally, Mycroft reached forward and grabbed a piece of fish. He lifted it, continuing to examine it with sharp eyes, before finally taking a bite. His face was blank and he made no noise as he chewed, took another bite, and then set it down. He then did the same with a chip.

"Well?" Greg asked after a beat. Mycroft reached for a napkin and wiped his hand on it, sighing.

"It's… not horrible," he admitted, pursing his lips in a thin line. Greg grinned.

"Told ya."


	49. Day 49: Shaken Up

Usually, whenever Greg was done for the day, he'd head home and either curl up on the sofa with Mycroft, or wait for Mycroft to get home so they could curl up on the sofa. Point being, he was always eager to get home. It was something that had come back to him upon dating Mycroft, and moving in together after a year of said dating. He got out of his dingy, depressing, empty bachelor's flat, and moved in with a man he was head over heels in love with.

Greg did not go straight home from the Met that day. Instead, he went to his usual pub. He sat down at the bar, silenced his mobile, and ordered a pint. In silence, he drank said pint. The telly above the bar had a match on, but his eyes never rose to it. They remained glued on the bar top, and the sweating glass in between his hands. He had a second, and then a third, before calling it quits and paying. He was still in a weird mood, and still shaken up, but he knew he should go home now. If he stayed, he'd continue drinking, and then he'd be drunk and trying to get a cab home.

He sighed; his whole body sluggish and exhausted and he stepped inside his and Mycroft's shared home. He practically dumped his coat onto the rack instead of hanging it normally, tripped out of his shoes, and headed down the hall. Instead of going to the sitting room, he turned and made his way up the steps to the bedroom. Wordlessly, he tugged off his suit jacket, shirt, and trousers. In just his pants, he collapsed onto the bed and buried his face into Mycroft's pillow.

"Gregory?" came a calming, curious voice. Greg stirred, realizing in that moment that he'd fallen asleep. What time was it? Sighing, he moved to sit up, rubbing his eyes and staring at the duvet on the bed. A moment later, he heard precise footsteps enter the bedroom. "Gregory, what's wrong?"

The smile Greg gave was half-hearted. Of course Mycroft could tell right away that something was the matter. His boyfriend was brilliant like that. He'd never been able to hide anything from him. Not that he'd ever wanted to. As he looked up at his partner, though, everything that he'd held back up until now came crashing forward. His resolve was gone. Mortified as he was inwardly, he could feel the hot, prickly sensation coming in around his eyes, and his vision blurred a bit with tears that didn't quite want to fall.

Mycroft was on the bed and at Greg's side in an instant. Slender arms shot out and wrapped around his form, tugging him into a tight kiss. The younger man's pointed nose buried itself in silvery strands, the same strands that were getting stroked lovingly. Greg trembled, clutching onto the man for dear life.

"Your case," Mycroft said, not a question. Even if he didn't always know the intimate details, he was always aware of what the nature of the emotion was from. Hell, for all Greg knew, he _did_ know the details, and just allowed him to talk about it anyway so he could feel better. Greg was quiet for a beat before he nodded.

"Y-yeah," he sighed, sniffing and nuzzling into his lover's neck. Finally, he pulled away and allowed himself to sit up. He scrubbed his face with a hand and sighed again, before running the hand through his hair. "I always keep my emotions separate from the crime scenes, you know."

Mycroft was patient and silent, nodding and humming where appropriate. It was clear he wanted to let Greg get everything off his chest on his own terms. Glancing down at the duvet, he began fiddling with it absently.

"The body was… She was thirteen, Mycroft," he continued after a moment, his voice trembling. "She'd been beaten, raped… It was…"

He shut his eyes, sighing. It had been _awful_. He'd almost not been able to handle staying on the scene at first.

"And then I had to tell her parents. That was just as bad. It was… She looked so much like Elizabeth, Myc. And I kept thinking, what if it had been her? What if I was the father getting that kind of news? That my little girl, my precious baby, had such horrible things done to her. Had been dropped in a ditch for three days before she was found. **Christ**, I just…"

He broke off, voice trembling, as a few tears escaped. He didn't realize they had until he felt slender fingers rubbing against his cheek and brushing them away. Mycroft was gazing at him with soft, compassionate eyes. Then, leaning in, he brushed their lips together gently.

"Elizabeth is home safe, is she not?" he asked evenly, his voice soft. Greg nodded.

"Yeah. Called her shortly after, just to… Didn't tell her why. She doesn't need to know that kinda thing."

Leaning forward, he buried his face into Mycroft's neck again and breathed deeply, letting his scent wrap around him. He was still shaken, could still see her… but he was starting to feel a little better. Mycroft held him, allowing him time to calm down, stroking his hair and the back of his neck repeatedly.

"Come, darling. I'll make you some tea. Then perhaps a hot bath is in order, yes?"

Greg smiled, gazing up at Mycroft. His boyfriend. One of the kindest men he'd ever known. He nodded.

"That sounds lovely. Thank you."

"Always." And before they got up, Mycroft leaned in for another sweet, lingering kiss. One that said nothing and everything all at the same time.


	50. Day 50: First Time

**NSFW! Sex abound~**

Mycroft was aware of the mechanics of sexual intercourse. He was a genius, of course he was aware of them. In being aware, not once had he ever had a burning desire to participate in such an activity. Even in university, where the majority of his peers finally experimented with one another, he didn't participate. Not that anyone had been lined up outside his door to try, anyway.

This was something he had been perfectly content with. He was in no rush to go out and writhe around all sweaty and panting with another person. People were _awful_. He much preferred his silent life, behind the scenes, bending things the way they needed to be. But that was all before Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had come into his life.

Through a run-in with his extremely drugged up younger brother, Gregory Lestrade became slotted into the goings on of the Holmes boys. It had been irritating at first, frustrating and worrying when it came to he and Sherlock's relationship. Theirs was, however, strictly business, with the older man seemingly taking on a fatherly role in Sherlock's life above everything. Plus, when he was the root cause of Sherlock kicking his drug habit, Mycroft realized this was no ordinary DI.

What became interest turned into much more. He hadn't realized it at the time, maybe, but as it turned out, he had fallen in love with that man. Over the years, as their correspondence become more regular, it seemed that those feels had been returned just as quickly and just as strong. So Mycroft found himself in a position he'd never imagined he'd be in; first figuratively, and then literally.

They became intimately involved, kisses turning into touches, which turned into pants and gropes and even _rutting_, for gods sake. It was a ridiculously primal act that the logical part of Mycroft's brain made him want to wrinkle his extremely pointed nose at, but the spark of heat that shot through his gut as he rocked his hips against Gregory's thigh shut that part down. This was not the first time they'd ended up in this position, and as Mycroft had his head tilted back with Greg's lips on his neck, the realization finally hit him.

_He wanted this. He was ready._

Reaching up, he gripped silvery hair and pulled the older man back, who gazed up at him with slight confusion and full-blown lust. A man who cared deeply for him, who had never once pressed the situation to go farther than he was comfortable with. A man he'd been in love with for a lot longer than he'd ever realized. Swallowing, he licked his lips and moved to cup Greg's cheek.

"I'm ready," he voiced, his normally smooth voice roughened with arousal. He watched as those brown eyes grew dark, almost black, in response, and Greg gripped his waist securely.

"You're sure?" came his deep questioning response. It made Mycroft shiver. His voice was rough enough normally, but adding these elements to it practically made the man's voice sex enough on its own. He nodded.

"Yes, Gregory. Please." Mycroft could feel heat in his cheeks. He was flushed with a mixture of arousal and embarrassment. Here he was, practically pleading like the little virgin he supposed he technically was. Naturally, it wasn't that dramatic, but it still felt ridiculous.

Their touches became much more purposeful after this. Lube and condoms were produced, and before long they had both been shed of all their clothing. Greg worked at it slow, preparing him properly with his fingers. It felt like torture, and Mycroft was practically writhing, wanting, _needing_ more. He was becoming impatient, but still his lover went slowly. Of course, it was logical. But his brain had begun throwing logic out the window. He just wanted to feel.

Finally, after what felt like **forever**, Greg removed his fingers and began preparing himself with the condom and then more lube. But instead of climbing over him, or moving him onto his stomach like Mycroft was expecting, he took his hand and pulled him to straddle his lap. Mycroft blinked down at the older man curiously.

"This way, you can control our pace. It'll be easier for you," he said in explanation, leaning forward to nuzzle at Mycroft's pale collarbone. _Ah_. That made sense. Mycroft lifted himself up onto his knees and licked his lips nervously, and underneath Greg positioned himself properly.

"Just remember to relax," came Greg's soft, deep voice again. "Take it slow. I've got you."

Mycroft exhaled, closing his eyes briefly at the feeling of his tip brushing against him. He gripped onto Greg's tan shoulders, taking a deep breath, and then exhaling as he lowered himself. Pain immediately shot through him, causing him to suck in a breath and dig his manicured nails into the shoulders he was gripping. _Relax_, he told himself. He needed to relax. His heart was pounding and a soft noise escaped him involuntarily, but he forced himself to relax and then continued. It still hurt, and he whimpered again, but finally Greg had been taken all the way inside him.

The older man cradled his face and kissed him gently, helping to take his mind off the pain and he settled in and tried getting used to the odd feeling inside him. It was painful, but it was also… nice. It was a strange combination, to be sure. They kissed, and caressed, and it all felt so wonderful that he started to forget about the pain as arousal took back over. As it had, Mycroft began moving.

The pace was slow and uneven. No doubt it was a sloppy performance. But Greg never let that show. Instead he elicited the sweetest of moans, his hands resting on Mycroft's waist, shifting with him to allow the movement to continue. Mycroft was throbbing, sweat starting to trickle down his neck, but he paid attention to none of it. He picked up pace, hips rocking more eagerly as the pain practically became nonexistent, being completely overtaken by pleasure. His thin lips parted as he panted, eyes closed tight, the two of them starting to move in more fluid motion with one another.

His eyes flew open as a sharper pleasure shot right through his gut, white-hot vibrating through him, and he cried out despite himself. Now _that_ was something he'd never experienced before. The feeling became repeated, every time Greg thrust into him, and he found himself bending forward and burying his face in the crook of his lover's neck to muffle himself. He was becoming embarrassingly loud. This must be what it felt like to have one's prostate stimulated. He never wanted it to end.

Motions became more urgent, more animalistic. Mycroft even found himself biting and sucking the skin of Greg's shoulder, the two men arching and moaning together. Finally, the build up became too much, and when Greg wrapped a confident hand around his erection, he knew it was over. Trembling, Mycroft froze as his orgasm ripped through him, spilling sticky moisture in between their bodies. Greg yelped and moaned, stilling just moments after as his own arrived just moments after. Together they sat, panting and twitching, riding out the aftershocks, until they finally looked back in each other's eyes.

Mycroft leaned in and they began kissing again. It was full of emotion and intense, but it was less urgent. More was being said in this kiss than they could have hoped to say currently with words. He clutched Greg tightly, before finally dislodging them from one another, where they moved to settling into each other's arms.

As they were lying there, Mycroft knew he would have to get up and take a shower. There was no way he would fall asleep a sticky mess. But for now, he allowed them this moment. This blissful moment, nuzzling and kissing and stroking, where they basked in the beauty of what they had done.

Mycroft had never believed sex to be more than a primal act, which is partially why he'd never had any interest. How wrong he had been. He would readily admit that to himself (even if he never did to any other). While previously, he had arched an eyebrow at those who seemed to focus on the act, he now understood as he found himself wondering when they will have recovered and would be able to go at one another again.

He supposed it partially had to do with the wonderfulness that was Greg. That man… Well, Mycroft didn't think he would ever get over that man. He never wanted to. He craved him in a way he'd never done for anyone or anything, and it was perfect.


	51. Day 51: Stop Worrying

Mycroft was pacing back and fourth on the other side of the room. Greg watched him quietly from where he was sitting in a chair. Mycroft _never_ paced like this. He needed to go home. Sighing, he pushed himself to stand, and glanced over at the bed containing a much thinner and much paler Sherlock, asleep, before walking over to his partner. He came up behind him and reached out to grasp his biceps gently, coaxing him to halt.

"Let's go home," he whispered. Mycroft sighed through his nose, turning to face him.

"I'm fine," came a clipped response. The politician's face was the picture of emotionless; the mask he wore when he couldn't afford to be open. Greg knew it all too well. He gazed up at the taller man empathetically. He was not so easy to fool.

"_Let's go home_," he repeated, tugging him towards the door. "He'll be asleep for hours, and John's coming back. Come on."

Mycroft said nothing, but he allowed himself to be led through the hospital and down to where a black car was waiting for them. As always. Opening the door, Greg made Mycroft climb in first, before joining him, and they were driven home.

The ride was quiet. Mycroft stared out the window for the majority of it, back rigid, hands plastered at his sides. Greg remained a constant presence next to him, reaching out to place a hand on his knee and squeezing gently. Mycroft made no motion to acknowledge the touch. Getting out of the vehicle and inside their home was very much the same. Though, instead of allowing Mycroft to vanish somewhere in the house after hanging up his jacket, Greg caught his hand and threaded their fingers together, tugging him into the sitting room and onto the sofa.

"He'll be okay, Myc," Greg finally said after a moment, wrapping his arm around slender shoulders. He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.

"Sherlock hasn't been this bad off since…" the younger man started, but faded off. It was uncharacteristic, but when it came to Sherlock, Mycroft tended to be. At least, in a way he allowed Greg to see after their years together.

"Since the last time he overdosed," Greg finished for him. "I know. I was there."

"I know you were," Mycroft nodded, closing his eyes. His brow was furrowed, yet he said nothing else.

"C'mere," Greg beckoned, nudging Mycroft to lean against him. He started stroking his hair gently, in attempts to soothe him. After a moment, he could feel some of the tension seeping out of his figure. "It's okay to be scared, you know."

"I am not," Mycroft huffed stubbornly. Greg just smiled.

"I'm just saying," he commented. He purposefully did not bring up the fact that he knew otherwise, or that there was no use lying to him. But he kept his mouth shut. There was no need to voice it when they both knew it. Mycroft sighed.

"It… It's uncomfortable. Seeing him in such a state. Besides, the doctors are all rather incompetent, and he would honestly be better off in this house, in my care."

Greg continued to stroke his hair, nuzzling the top of his head gently, letting Mycroft get this off his chest. It was the way he showed how much he cared. He could see through the front he was still putting up, and see that he was absolutely horrified. This was out of his control, and Mycroft didn't do well when things were out of his control.

"We've gotten through just as bad," he said. "In the early days, this kind of situation was more normal than not. And look how it turned out. John came along and he understood what it meant to be happy. He'll push through this. He has reasons to."

Silence. Both men were still, letting the words that had been spoken sink in. Eventually, after what had to be at least half an hour of not speaking, Mycroft lifted his head and turned to look at Greg. Those sharp blue eyes were filled with worry. His face was smooth as ever, but he could see the panic in his partner's features. However, it was mixed with slight comfort.

"You are right, I'm sure," he said softly, sighing.

"Of course I am," Greg smiled, leaning in to kiss Mycroft sweetly. He cupped his cheek, stroking the skin, and brushed the tips of their noses together before parting. "We'll go back tomorrow, okay?"

Mycroft nodded, and leaned in for another comforting kiss.


	52. Day 52: Sussex

"God, I could stay here forever," Greg sighed, stretching his legs out in front of his and his arms up behind his head. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, enjoying the warmth from the sun up above, mixed with a calm wind that kept it from getting too hot. Mycroft hummed in agreement next to him, legs crossed and a book in his hand.

It was amazing how getting away from London could land them such beautiful weather. The two men were currently taking a mini vacation at a small Holmes family estate up in Sussex. Small for a Holmes standard, anyway. The place was still bloody huge in Greg's opinion. It really seemed to suit Mycroft though, in the way it was kept up and decorated. It was clear he used it much more than Sherlock (if the detective used it at all).

"We could, you know," Mycroft spoke after a moment. Enough time had gone by that Greg had to blink for a second, before he realized.

"Oh?" he asked, taking off his sunglasses so he could gaze at his partner better. Mycroft turned away from his book to return the gaze, smiling softly.

"Indeed. This is my estate, Gregory. In turn, that makes it yours. To come here whenever you wish."

Greg was silent, blinking. He broke their gaze so he could look out along the backyard again, where they were sitting. They'd been resting on the patio, which was complete with a full set of outdoor furniture and a hot tub. The trees in the backyard had to be so old, and gave off the perfect shadow. He could even see his girls climbing the huge branches, if they visited. The house was large, but not vast or empty feeling. There was an entertainment room, a workout room, a few bedrooms apart from the master, and plenty others that could be studies or libraries, or anything they wanted it to be. The kitchen was glorious, something that made the chef inside of him want to drool with glee. Sighing, Greg ran a hand through his hair and grinned.

"Don't tease me, Myc. Are you serious?"

"Naturally. Why would I jest about something like this?" Mycroft asked, arching his eyebrow in its trademark fashion.

Greg felt himself get a bit giddy. He had always been one to envision the two of them throughout their lives, over the course of their relationship, but it was never really something they talked about. To have this kind of conversation, even if it came across as seemingly meaningless, was a big deal to him. Suddenly needing some movement, he hopped up out of his chair and paced leisurely around the patio.

"We could retire here," he commented absently, his mind racing with the possibilities. They were endless. "Once I left the force, and your position becomes less office-based. We could retire up here. Get out of London. You could take up gardening, maybe…"

"It's always been something I've been curious to do in my spare time," Mycroft chimed in. Closing his book, the politician stood and joined the older man, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on Greg's shoulder.

"You do have that bonsai tree," Greg pointed out, turning to kiss Mycroft's temple. He smiled.

"Of course, and I still would. But the potential of this backyard is almost a bit staggering, Gregory."

He'd been so surprised of Mycroft's seemingly green thumb when he'd found out a few months prior, but Greg loved it. It suited him. Just as it would suit him to spend time out here in a truly developed garden. Greg grinned brightly, feeling much younger than he really was.

"It would be…" he started, pressing their heads together and closing his eyes. "It would be lovely."

"It _will_ be," Mycroft corrected surely. "There's no use in talking figuratively over something that is so easily reality, darling. Now come, let's go in. I'd rather enjoy drawing up a bath for us."

Greg nodded, letting the younger man take his hand and lead him back toward the house. He threaded their fingers together, staring at Mycroft's back, before taking a final look at the backyard before they went inside. Yes… He truly did love this place.


	53. Day 53: Sneaking In

Determination was key. That was what Greg told himself as he stood in the backyard of the Holmes manor, staring up at the balcony that he knew led to Mycroft's room. How did he know it led to the boy's room? He couldn't quite say. But it did, and he was about to scale the wall. Hell, he was eighteen, he was a nimble climber.

So scale the wall he did. He all but fell over onto the balcony and moved to knock quietly on the closed sliding door. There was no response for a moment, so he knocked again. Finally, the younger boy he was so eager to see peeked out and slid the door open, pale eyes wide with shock.

"What are you doing here?" Mycroft hissed, looking over at the other teen like he'd grown a second head.

"I missed you," Greg shrugged casually. His boyfriend had been pulled out of London on a family business trip and had been gone for two weeks, having only gotten back last night. They talked on the phone every night while he was away, but it wasn't the same as seeing him in person. "Can I come in?"

"If my parents find you here, they will kill me," Mycroft sighed, but he opened the door wider anyway and stepped back. This was the invitation Greg had needed, and he slipped into the room and shut the door behind him.

Without another word, he strode right up to Mycroft and wrapped his arms around his waist, leaning in to kiss him sweetly. His boyfriend responded instantly, lifting his arms to reach around his neck and press the two of them close. His hand slid into Greg's black hair, gripping securely.

"How was your trip?" Greg asked against Mycroft's lips once they broke apart slightly.

"Boring. Father brought me along to see how the meetings and such worked, but… I just did a lot of sitting around. Very tedious. I would have much rather been here, where I could've seen you."

Pulling apart, Mycroft threaded their fingers together and tugged Greg over to his large bed. They climbed onto it and moved to lie down, curling up against each other. Mycroft nuzzled into Greg's tan neck, who smiled softly.

"How was it back here?" he asked, his breath hitting Greg's skin. It felt good. Comforting.

"Same old same. School was not excited, as always. The band's been practicing; we've got a gig coming up. I hope you can come?" Greg asked, running his hands through the younger boy's dark, slightly ginger hair.

"I hope so as well. Be sure to give me the information."

Greg smiled and nodded. Sure, his band didn't play the type of music Mycroft normally listened to, but the Holmes boy had started to listen to it a bit more once the two of them had begun dating. He'd been wanting to get him to one of their gigs for a while, as small and unimportant as they really were, and it seemed it would finally happen.

They continued to lie on the bed, kissing and talking softly, completely relaxed in each other's presence. That is, until there was a knock on the door. Freezing, Mycroft's eyes widened and he started shoving at Greg.

"_Get under the covers and lie flat Gregory_," he hissed, practically scrambling to get the older teen hidden before the door opened.

"Mycroft, dear, dinner will be ready soon," an older woman said as she poked her head in the room. Mycroft had sat up, moving in front of where Greg was attempting to stay hidden. He nodded.

"Yes, thank you mummy. I shall be down shortly."

"And fetch your brother."

"Of course, mummy."

Silence for a moment, as the two exchanged smiles, and then Mummy Holmes left and shut the door. Mycroft exhaled and slumped his shoulders as Greg tugged the duvet down and poked his head out.

"Whew, that was close," he huffed, laughing and grinning. Mycroft glared at him over his shoulder and proceeded to smack him with a pillow.


	54. Day 54: Small Gifts

When Greg got to Scotland Yard that morning and got into his office, there was a fresh coffee and a brown paper bag sitting square in the middle of his desk. Blinking curiously, he set his briefcase down on the floor and walked over, peeking in the bag to find a piece of coffee cake. Licking his lips, he walked around and sat, taking a sip of the coffee and groaning. Goddamn was it some of the best he'd ever had. It was then that he saw the small note attached to the bag.

_A little pick-me up for the start of what is sure to be a long day. Lunch later? -MH_

Greg smiled over his coffee cup, reaching out and running his thumb across the delicately scrawled words. It was a small gesture, sure, but it carried heavy meaning behind it. Humming softly, he pulled out the coffee cake and tore off a piece, chewing happily. His day would be decidedly better now.

The next time a gesture had come through like this, Greg had been stuck at the Yard for almost 36 hours straight. It was one of the most grueling cases of his career, even with Sherlock and John working it as well, and he was currently staring at the results of the victim's autopsy for what had to be at least the fourth time. His vision was blurring, and he scrubbed at his face, deciding he needed to go on a coffee run.

A knock sounded on his door, and Sally popped her head in, holding up a sack. Greg's brow furrowed as she brought it over and dumped it on his desk.

"For you, sir," she prompted, nodding at it with a soft smile, and was gone before he could respond. Blinking, he opened the sack, pulling out a container of food from the nearby Chinese place that he loved. It was still hot and fresh, and it was some of his favorite stuff. Another note was attached, in that gorgeous handwriting.

_Don't forget to eat. You neglect yourself needlessly during a particularly rough case. –MH_

So he ate. If he hadn't received that food, he doubted he would've made it out to eat that night. Mycroft knew him too well. It made Greg start to wonder where he'd be without his relationship with the politician.

The gifts were always simple, always practical. But Greg still considered them gifts. There was a hint of romance behind them, something most capable with a Holmes. It suited Mycroft very well, and it was something that made Greg feel special. He felt thought of, looked after. Not to mention that they always showed up when he needed it the most.

As he all but dragged himself into his office one morning and collapsed into his chair, another token was revealed. He opened his briefcase on his desk, sniffing deeply and trying to ignore the miserable throbbing in his head. He blinked at what was revealed among his files. A pack of paracetamol, some of his favorite tea (that he could combine with hot water at some point during the day), and one of Mycroft's own handkerchiefs (a silky dark blue cloth that had a white crisscross pattern going across it). As he unfolded the handkerchief, a note fell out.

_This will be more pleasant for your nose than the tissues kept at the Yard. Try to keep your strength up, darling. I can care for you properly later this evening. –MH_

There were also the small series of quirky gifts that was on more of a playful, joking side. Two of the more recent ones being an apple with a note that read: _They say an apple a day will keep the doctor away, but it is also rather effective when thrown in the direction of the doctor's flatmate. –MH_, and a set of earplugs with the following note: _I understand that a visit from Sherlock is imminent later. This should prove useful when he starts talking just for the sake of talking. –MH _

No matter the context or the meaning behind them, Greg adored them. He got them at least once a week, no matter what. It made no difference if the two men had seen each other earlier that morning, or if Mycroft was in another country all together. He received them without fail.

He kept every note. They were stored away in a small compartment in the top drawer of his desk, so when he needed a moment to breathe and relax, he pulled them out and read them. They never failed to bring a smile to his face.


	55. Day 55: En Francais

**French done with Google translate, so apologies for any translation inaccuracies. The English phrases can be found at the bottom! :D**

There were many things over the course of Mycroft's relationship with Greg that surprised him. He knew so much, about the concept of love and intimacy (and the practice, of course, he wasn't born yesterday), and he knew more about the inner workings of the older man before they'd ever gotten together, but even still, he surprised him. That was part of the draw, he supposed. The fascination that emerged from it is what inevitably ended them up where they were now, as an actual couple.

One night, as he was relaxing in the sitting room and reading, one of those surprises came about. There was no reason for the surprise, but in looking back on it later, was one of the most pleasant ones he'd experienced. His other half was pacing back and fourth in irritation, having just receiving a phone call from New Scotland Yard in regards to a case that he'd been involved in, but not as the head detective. Mycroft wasn't completely aware of the situation, but he didn't need to be.

"Personne ne m'écoute et voila ce qui arrive. C'est pour ça que je dois tout faire moi-même. Est-ce qu'un jour ils ne pourraient pas juste écouter [1]," he was grumbling hotly, texting lightning speed on his mobile. It was no surprise or secret that Greg was fluent in French; his father _had_ grown up there, after all. He still had strong family ties to the country. French was also nothing new to Mycroft. He spoke six languages completely fluently, and French had been the second one he'd learned.

So why was it that as he listened to Greg fussing away in French, did Mycroft start finding it much more difficult to concentrate on the pages in front of him?

He waited patiently, however, for a convenient moment to interrupt. Closing his book, he stood and strode over to where his other half was, unable to ignore the small heat growing in his belly.

"Is this a bad time?" he asked softly, eyebrow arched as he reached out to gently grasp the older man's bicep. He knew the answer, or he wouldn't have bothered actually walking over, but it was something one did sometimes when initiating a conversation. Greg stopped and opened his mouth to respond, but noticed the dark look in his eyes and stopped short.

"No, not-" he started, but Mycroft shushed him by pressing a slender finger to his lips.

"En français," he practically growled. Greg blinked, realization dawning on him, and his growing pupils reflected his bodily reaction to the command. _Oh_. Slowly, he began smirking, taking a step forward to close some of the distance between the two of them.

"Je pense que je peux prendre un peu de temps [2]," he whispered, leaning in to brush the tip of his nose along Mycroft's jaw. Mycroft tilted his chin instantly, giving his partner more access to the expanse of skin there and shivering slightly. His grip on Greg's bicep tightened slightly. _Goodness_, the things his body was doing in response to the older man speaking French… It was beneficial that he had such good self-control.

"Tu me veux [3]?" Greg asked deeply, nipping at the pulse point of Mycroft's neck. The politician swallowed, licking his lips.

"_Yes_," he sighed, pressing his slender body against the strong one of his partner.

"Je vais te prendre [4]," he continued, lowering down and sucking on Mycroft's collarbone. Mycroft let out a soft noise, a whimper, feeling his knees start to tingle as arousal was taking over his body.

"Tell me," he commanded. He wanted to hear more. He needed to hear.

"Mauvais garçon. Je vais t'arracher tes vêtements et te jeter sur ton matelas. Je vais te laisser te tortiller et supplier pour avoir plus. Et seulement quand tu sears fou de desir, je te laisserai venir [5]." Greg's hands had started to roam, teasing touches that slipped under neatly placed articles of clothing. He gripped at Mycroft's waist and shoved them together, rocking his hips and creating sweet friction that caused them both to almost groan.

Desperately, Mycroft grabbed Greg's head and forced him up to kiss him. The kiss was rough, all teeth and tongue and need, and they only broke apart when neither man could breathe.

"Then do it," Mycroft snarled, shoving them both in the direction of the bedroom.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

_[1] No one listens to me and this is what happens. This is why I have to do everything myself. You would think that one day they would just listen._

_[2] I think I can make some time._

_[3] Do you want me?_

_[4] I'm going to take you._

_[5] You naughty man. I'm going to tear off your clothes and throw you down on our mattress. I'm going to leave you writhing and begging for more. And only when you're out of your mind with arousal will I give you release._


	56. Day 56: Skype Call

Everything sucked. Work was awful, the perp got away, and Greg sprained his ankle in the process. On top of that, Sherlock was being more of a frustrating brat than he normally was, and after everything, he was coming home to an empty flat. Sighing in resignation, he hung up his soaked coat (because it was also pouring rain, as if it wasn't aggravating enough) and trudged through to the bedroom to change into comfortable, baggy clothing.

Mycroft was out of the country. He'd been out of the country for going on three weeks now. What was supposed to be a one-week business trip turned into two, and then three, and it was looking as if it would be going on a full month with the way the politician had been talking. Whatever they were attempting wasn't getting anywhere, and as they talked over the phone almost nightly, Mycroft seemed to be getting more and more fed up. Unfortunately, he was too important a party involved to leave everything and come home. So he remained there. And Greg remained alone.

Grumpily, he padded into the kitchen once he'd pulled on some old sweatpants and a football kit shirt to make some coffee. He also hadn't been sleeping well, and even with as much exhaustion and pain that he was in, tonight would most likely be much of the same. He made his drink and then headed into the room that had been turned into his study when they'd moved in together. Powering up his laptop, he browsed his emails briefly and then started digging through case files to try and keep his mind occupied.

Some time later, as he was pouring over some of his most recent notes and only half reading what he'd written down, he heard a noise emitting from his laptop. Blinking, he turned his head, seeing his new Skype notification bouncing up and down. He immediately abandoned everything he'd been holding to turn to the screen. Mycroft was calling. He suddenly felt like a kid on Christmas morning, and he settled into his seat more comfortably before answering.

The call loaded for a moment, before the screen revealed the wonderful face of his partner. The younger man was still in a suit (sort of; the jacket was gone and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone), looking as professional and put together as always. His calm face turned happy, a small smile sliding onto his features, as they became face to face with each other.

"Good evening, Gregory," he prompted, speaking first. Greg ran a hand through his hair and smiled.

"Hey Myc," he returned, leaning forward a bit to prop up his elbow on the edge of his desk. "How'd today go?"

"Much like yesterday," Mycroft responded, annoyance and exhaustion passing onto his face briefly. "I would very much like for things to get put on track so they can be wrapped up. It's getting tedious and unnecessary."

"And I miss you," Greg said, voicing the thought that was constantly running through his head.

"I know Gregory. I apologize. Had I thought-"

"You didn't know," Greg stopped him, putting up a hand. "Besides, whatever it is, it's important that you're there. I can't keep you from that."

No matter how much he wanted to.

A moment of comfortable silence fell between them as Mycroft had to type out a quick text on his mobile. Greg just watched for the majority of the time, drinking in the sight of the man he missed more than anything, though he did take a sideways glance at the floor after a moment.

"You've had a bad day," came the politician's ever-correct deduction. It pulled Greg's attention back to the computer screen. He sighed through his nose, his shoulders dropping slightly.

"The worst," he confirmed, and proceeded to talk about as much as he could without diving into the finer points of the case. His job came with their own confidences, even if 90% of the time they weren't necessary when talking to Mycroft. He usually knew anyway. By the end he felt frazzled and fed up again, and he huffed. "And I just wanted to come home, and relax and…"

"And see me," Mycroft finished quietly, eyes soft. "Gregory, I am sorry."

Greg shook his head and waved a hand in front of his face. He took a deep breath, trying to fight back the prickly feeling that was coming in around his eyes. This was ridiculous. He was so stressed he was about to start crying, and there was no reason for it. He needed to pull himself together.

"Just hurry and come home, yeah?" he asked, his voice cracking some. He did, however, manage a smile. Mycroft nodded.

"Of course." Leaning forward slightly, Mycroft reached out his hand and pressed it up to the camera, palm out. Greg returned the gesture, their hands pressed together digitally (something they did every time they video chatted). "I love you, Gregory."

Greg blinked. Mycroft wasn't one to speak the infamous three words very often. He showed how much he loved him in so many other ways. So many ways that was more elegant and did their feelings for each other justice. It seemed, however, that the younger man knew he needed to hear the words. Tears welled up in his eyes again, and leaning in, Greg pressed a kiss to the camera.

"I love you too, Myc."


	57. Day 57: Annoyingly Nervous

"I can go to the office for the evening. There's always work to be done," Mycroft said softly, standing in front of a window in the bedroom and staring out at the sky. Behind him and half dressed, Greg sighed softly. He walked up behind the younger man and wrapped his arms around his waist, pressing close and resting his forehead against the back of his shoulder.

"You could, yes. But the point is that I don't _want_ you to, Myc," Greg said pointedly. "You're extremely important to me. Just as they are. You're a part of my life now."

Mycroft sighed through his nose. Never before had he felt the way he was feeling currently: nervous. He had the urge of flight and it was a strange one. Greg's two daughters were coming over for dinner later that evening, and it was going to be the first time they were meeting him. Dad's new boyfriend. Mycroft also had no experience with children in his adult life. Sure, he basically raised Sherlock as they were growing up, but that was long ago and a different time.

Mycroft was not an impressionable guy. He'd never desired to be. He was settled in his life and the way things were run. Children, however… They were immensely unpredictable beings. It wasn't just that, though. These were his partner's children. Greg was a brilliant father, and those two girls were his world, so there was a lot riding on this meeting. It had to go well or it would prove difficult. But to have a ten- and sixteen-year-old coming by…

"Come on, love. They'll be here soon." Greg patted his bicep gently, breaking him from his trance. Mycroft's lips pressed together in a thin line and he almost reluctantly turned to follow the older man to the kitchen. He had a strong urge to pour himself a glass of scotch. Perhaps he could retreat to his study and do so.

"Myc?" came Greg's deep voice after a moment, pulling Mycroft from his thoughts. He blinked and turned to face him, raising his eyebrows slightly.

"Yes Gregory?" he asked calmly. Greg was looking at him curiously, in that way he looked at Mycroft when he could tell something was up. It was almost frustrating. Mycroft had made his life out of not being able to be read by anyone, apart from Sherlock (and even that was spotty at times, he **was** the smarter one after all). Yet here he was, practically an open book with Greg. Of course, the detective inspector knew him in ways no other individual ever would, so he supposed that was something that came with it as well.

"You're real out of it," he pointed out, annoyingly accurate. Mycroft just sighed, because really, there was no point in denying it. The other man walked over to him, gazing up at his face with all the adoration and patience in the world. "They're going to love you, I know it. Stop freaking out. Just be yourself, and you will charm the pants off of them. Just like you did me."

"If I'm recalling, there was little charming," Mycroft countered. "You were rather angry."

"Because you kidnapped me in the middle of a case," Greg laughed softly. "But you charmed the hell out of me later. Besides, there's no kidnapping tonight. Just Elizabeth and Abby coming over to meet the love of their da's life. They're excited to finally meet you. I don't see how it could go wrong."

"There are many ways it could go wrong, Gregory-" Mycroft started, huffing. He was silenced, however, as Greg lifted himself up and crashed their lips together in a passionate kiss. It took a second before the younger man responded, but he did, a slender hand going up and running through the silvery hair of his lover. They pressed close, kissing until they were out of breath, and when they parted Greg beamed up at him in a way that made his insides melt.

"Now come on. Need to get dinner started. They should be there in…"

There was a rapid knock at the front door. Mycroft stiffened, and Greg smiled.

"Now, it seems."

"Oh dear lord," Mycroft sighed, feeling extremely nervous and hating every second of it.

"You. Will be. _Fine_," Greg said pointedly. "Now come on. There are two girls on the other side of this door that are dying to fall in love with you too."

Mycroft huffed, straightening his waistcoat and squaring his shoulders. No turning back, he supposed. It was time.


	58. Day 58: Flying

Greg shifted in his seat nervously, attempting to pointedly _not_ look out the window near him. Maybe he shouldn't have sat near the window in the first place. After all, he and Mycroft did have full reign of the seating that was around them. That was the beauty of a private plane, after all. It was a very relaxed, intimate atmosphere, with sofas instead of lines of seats and reclining chairs. And a bar. That was a lovely addition. He could really use a drink.

Even though the atmosphere was relaxed, he was far from it. Not that Greg was intensely afraid of heights or anything, because he wasn't. There was something about being in a plane, though, that made him immensely uneasy. Flying thousands of miles up in the air was an altitude man really shouldn't be allowed to be at. They didn't have wings and shit for a reason. Greg was just fine being on the ground, but his partner had insisted they take the plane for their vacation because it would be much quicker and easier than driving. He wasn't denying that truth, of course, and it was how they ended up here.

Clenching the arm rests of his seat tightly, Greg tilted his head down and shut his eyes. As long as he didn't think about it, didn't look outside… But then there was the turbulence, and it jolted him a bit. He sighed, frowning.

"Gregory?" came the questioning, smooth voice of his other half. Reluctantly, he turned to look at Mycroft, knowing he'd see right through him. And of course he did. "Darling, it's perfectly safe."

"I know it is," he huffed, crossing his arms tightly in front of him. "But still, it…"

_Freaks me out_. He didn't finish the thought. He didn't really need to. Before anything else could be said, Mycroft stood up and was walking over to him. Greg felt a surge of panic watching him move around the contraption so freely. Should he really be walking around? It didn't seem safe. Then, a slender arm was reaching out for him, requesting him to take his hand. Seriously? Greg did NOT want to get out of his seat. Nope. Not while this plane was moving. He stared at the offered hand, feeling a bit paralyzed.

"It's alright, Gregory. Come here," Mycroft said smoothly, reaching the rest of the way since the older man didn't take his hand. He wrapped his slender fingers around Greg's wrist and tugged gently, coaxing him reluctantly out of his seat. He all but clutched to Mycroft's biceps once they'd stood, brown eyes wide. The politician just looked amused. "Come on."

He turned and tugged Greg across the way, leading him over to one of the huge sofas that were sitting closer to the bar. Greg's legs felt wobbly. He supposed that with as much travelling as Mycroft did for work, this was nothing to him. But he couldn't stop from freaking out still. Eventually, though, he was gently pushed down onto the sofa, and Mycroft proceeded to climb onto his lap. Greg blinked, gazing up at him curiously.

"It seems what is required is something to take your mind off the travelling," Mycroft said softly. His voice had changed; slipping into a deeper, smoother tone that Greg had become familiar with. He knew _exactly_ what the younger man was doing.

"Trying to seduce me?" he asked with a grin. In response, Mycroft began slowly unbuttoning the front of his shirt. The smirk that got onto his face was one of confidence, and his pale eyes flashed.

"Oh, my dear Gregory, there is no trying involved," he murmured, leaning and all but attacking Greg's neck. He kissed and nipped the tan skin there, paying particular attention to his pulse point and collarbone. Greg's weak points. He whimpered, gripping Mycroft's sides and arching up against him.

He was right, there was no trying. Greg became Mycroft's instantly, like he always did. The younger man was so good at doing that to him, and it was bloody glorious. Quickly, he became all too aware of the heat between them, and the way their hips grinded together and created glorious friction. He couldn't get enough. Needed more.

Needless to say, he completely forgot they were flying.


	59. Day 59: Hay Fever

It was fascinating the things one could develop in the later years of their lives. If, by fascinating, you meant that it sucked. Close to fifty, and Greg's body had chosen now to give him hay fever. It was _awful_. For someone who had no seasonal allergies and a nose of steel for almost his entire life, getting hay fever was not something Greg was excited about at all.

It had been a confusing thing, when he first started exhibiting the symptoms. He thought he had been coming down with something, but none of what he was exhibiting lined up with any specific illness. His quick visit to the doctor proved negative on the realm of a virus or fever of any kind. One look at him, however, and his partner Mycroft knew exactly what was plaguing him.

"_Welcome to the club,"_ the younger man had said sarcastically. Greg had just groaned. It was a noise he was prone to a lot here the past few days. He groaned, and whined, and couldn't breathe, and felt over all awful and miserable and gross. He'd been unable to concentrate earlier that morning, while standing a crime scene, so he had bit the bullet and stopped by a Tesco on his lunch break before heading back to the Yard to pick up some medicine.

He'd taken the capsules while he ate his lunch, smiling at the reminder text he had received: _Do not forget to take medicine. It will help to clear your head some. –MH._ Now, he was just waiting for it to kick in, as he leaned over his desk and poured over case notes and paperwork scattered across the desk in front of him. He had his head propped up in his hand, pen held loosely in his other, lips parted slightly as he was having to breathe through his mouth and not his nose. He still couldn't concentrate. He was hoping the meds would kick in soon…

After a little while, Sally Donovan returned from the crime scene they had been working that morning. She dropped a packet off at her desk without pausing, and then made her way over to her boss's office. Swinging the door open, she popped her head in and glanced over at his desk.

"Sir, we need-" she started, ready to get the next stage of the investigation under way, when the sight in front of her caused her to pause. Greg was slumped over his desk, head resting on his arms, mouth parted, and completely asleep. She blinked, remaining silent for a second, before taking a slow step into the office.

"Sir?" she asked. Greg didn't stir. In fact, in response, he let out a rather audible snore. She blinked again, the snore causing her to jump a little bit, and she glanced over the desk. Near his coffee cup, she saw a medicine box sitting there, open. Walking over, she peered down at it, and then sighed and shook her head. It seemed that the Detective Inspector hadn't paid attention to the kind of medicine he'd picked up for the hay fever he was fighting, and had definitely** not** gotten something that specified non-drowsy. No wonder he was passed out and practically drooling. Smiling softly, she shook her head again and turned to leave. In that exact moment, the door to his office opened again and the elder Holmes was walking in, umbrella and jacket draped across his arm. She froze and blinked, before opening her mouth to speak, but his sharp eyes shifted past her immediately to look at the man at the desk.

"Oh dear," he said, striding into the room and over to the desk, glancing down at his snoring partner. "It seems I should have gotten the medication for him. I had rather hoped he would have paid attention and gotten the correct kind."

Sally nodded politely at him, smiling, and walked past him to leave and take care of a follow up for the case, shutting the door behind her. Now alone in the office, Mycroft walked around to the back of the desk, moving to stand beside the sleeping man. Leaning over slightly, he reached out to place slender hands on Greg's shoulders, and shake slightly.

"Come on Gregory, wake up. We're going home." His first response had been a snore. Smiling patiently, he leaned in closer to kiss the man's cheek, before speaking softly again. Finally, Greg began to stir, and ended up blinking up at him with unfocused, sleepy eyes.

"Myc?" he asked groggily, brow furrowing in confusion. He sniffed, winkling his nose and blinking, before scrubbing at his face with one hand.

"We're going home, darling. You need proper rest. In our bed. Come on."

Slowly, Greg allowed Mycroft to guide him out of his chair. The next thing he knew, they were riding in a car, and Greg was stretched out with his head on the younger man's lap. Slender fingers were running through his hair, soothing him back to sleep instantly. Then, he was in bed. It was nice, but also frustrating. How people dealt with hay fever their whole lives he'd never know.

At least he had a wonderful boyfriend who was one of those people who'd dealt with it his whole life. He proved to be of great assistance, and Greg remained mostly quiet as he let himself be looked after.


	60. Day 60: Date Day

Mycroft couldn't recall the last time he and Gregory had experienced such a relaxing day. Neither man had anything pressing at hand in their respective jobs, so for the first time in a while, they decided to have a Date Day (Gregory's words, not his). They had stayed in bed a few hours later than they were used to, which Mycroft had to admit, had felt rather bizarre and made him a bit restless. Their resting had taken a more intimate turn, however, so it was soon forgotten about.

After their joint shower and a light breakfast, the two of them got dressed and took the car down to the main shopping center in London. They had nowhere they needed to be, no goals for their trip, so they spent a majority of their time just leisurely walking down the roads and gazing into shoppes. Occasionally, they would wander inside one that caught one of their eyes curiously, and in a few they had made some small purchases, but they would never remain for long.

Hunger got the better of them after a while, and they stepped into a small bakery to take a rest and satisfy their need for food. They talked softly over sandwiches and tea, and halfway through Gregory reached out to thread their fingers together loosely. Public affection was scarce between them; professional appearances and all. It seemed that Mycroft had decided, as their relationship progressed, that he was becoming more relaxed on that front, so he squeezed Gregory's hand gently and remained there the rest of the time they sat and ate.

After lunch, they wandered around some more, making their way to a park. As they walked, they grew closer to one another, shoulders brushing together lightly. It was truly a perfect day to be out and about. The sun was out, and it was warm, but a gentle breeze kept it from getting too warm. Gregory stared fondly at the families that were out playing, at the children laughing and running around, and Mycroft through to himself. Gregory was an amazing father, as he'd had the pleasure to see with his two daughters that he shared with his ex wife. Daughters that, due to divorce agreements, he was unable to see very often.

"You miss it," he said softly in observation, drawing the older man's attention. Together, they made their way over to a bench and sat, thighs touching. Gregory glanced back at the children before nodding slightly.

"Yeah, I suppose I do," he admitted after a moment. Stretching his arms around, he rested them on the back of the bench and brushed his fingers along Mycroft's shoulder gently. In response, Mycroft smiled and shifted a bit closer so they were leaning against one another.

"Being a father, having a family, suits you. Always has," Mycroft continued. It had been something he'd been thinking about for a while. He had been thinking…

"What's brought this on?" Gregory asked softly, turning to give his partner his full attention. Mycroft felt a fluster of nervousness as their eyes locked, and he licked his bottom lip as he decided how to go about it. Mycroft was never one to express his own desires. How does one word himself without sounding selfish?

"I was thinking," he started turning his pale gaze away from those brown eyes for a moment and glancing at the children. He thought of Elizabeth and Abby, Gregory's daughters. He thought about the times they had when they came over and stayed at their house. "We have been together for a few years now. I would like… I would like to consider our options for starting a family of our own."

Gregory stared. He stared and he was quiet. Mycroft started to get a bit nervous, found that he was second guessing himself, and he shifted where he was sitting. Not good? Sure, he was much better at social cues than his ridiculous younger brother, but he found that when it came to his other half, he wasn't so sure.

"You want…to have a kid?" he finally asked after a moment, still blinking. Mycroft pressed his lips in a thin line and looked away.

"We don't _have _to, I just thought…" he started, huffing slightly. He was cut short, however, as Gregory cupped under his chin and forced his gaze back on him. Their lips connected instantly in a loving kiss, and Mycroft let out a soft noise of surprise at the action before returning the kiss.

"I'd love to," Gregory whispered after breaking the kiss. His eyes were wide and shining, and Mycroft felt his heart skip a beat. "We can… We can ask my sis, yeah? See if she wouldn't mind helping, maybe carry 'im for us."

"I was thinking adoption, but," Mycroft started, pausing and considering those words. How he hadn't thought of that before made him feel foolish. It was the most logical option and it would ensure that the child still had the genes of them both. If dear Emily would agree to carry the child, of course. He smiled. "But that would be lovely."

They shared another kiss, and Mycroft found himself getting excited over the prospect. After a while they left the park and continued the rest of their relaxing day, wandering through more of London before making their way back home. Their conversations, however, had turned to a very specific topic. They were to have a child together. Mycroft had no experience with real small children outside of his life growing up with Sherlock, but he still found himself eager for the opportunity. It was bound to change their lives in an amazing way.

He couldn't wait.


	61. Day 61: Becoming a Family

Mycroft never believed that he would become a father. He had been a large part in raising Sherlock when he was younger, but that was an entirely different situation. But a _father_… It was something that didn't seem conceivable until he and Greg had sat down in the park one day, and the conversation had happened.

They had decided to ask Greg's little sister, Emily, to be their surrogate. This gave the two men the opportunity to have a child that had both Lestrade and Holmes DNA. It was an opportunity that was more rare in same sex couples, in Mycroft's experience, and it was something they had been lucky to take advantage of. Emily had, of course, been more than eager to assist them in this task.

Time had flown by throughout the duration of Emily's pregnancy, and before Mycroft and Greg knew it, they were gifted with a son. Oliver Lucas Lestrade-Holmes was brought into the world, and soon became the center of both of theirs. Greg had two daughters from his previous marriage, so having an infant in his life was nothing new. To Mycroft, however, it had frankly been terrifying. For weeks he hadn't wanted to even hold his son; not for any cruel or distant reason, but frankly because he was immensely nervous handling a human being that was _that small_. The night Greg had passed him over, though, and helped to guide his arms and hands in the proper direction to cradle Oliver, it was all over.

Oliver grew fast. Greg had dropped his workload considerably (much to Sherlock's constant chagrin), and stayed home with him the majority of the time. Mycroft had lessened his responsibilities as well, and Anthea had played a huge part in that, but he still had to go to the office a lot more than the other man. The British Government, even in a position as minor as his, was not so easy to find replacements for his type of job. No longer did he have to go out of the country for extended periods of time, however, and apart from the occasional weekend, he was home Saturdays and Sundays. It had been an amazing shift in not only their family, but he and Greg's intimate life as well. Everything was working out for the better.

As he came home that evening from a long day of exhaustive meetings, he was surprised to find the house…quiet. Their home was never quiet anymore, and it made him pause at the coat rack curiously. Greg usually told him when they were going out anywhere, and his vehicle was home, so they had to be here… Across in the sitting room, he could hear something on the telly, though it was turned down rather low. It was a good place to start, at the very least. Hanging up his coat and setting down his briefcase, he strode down the hall in that direction.

The sight he walked in on in the sitting room made him stop short and stare. The two men in his life he adored more than anything were on the sofa, and they were both… completely passed out. Greg was lying on his back, legs crossed loosely as he stretched across the entire length of the sofa. He had on black slacks and no shirt, with one arm hanging off the sofa, hand resting on the floor. His other hand was up on Oliver's back, who was sprawled out on his father's chest. The eight-month-old was on his stomach, cheek pressed against Greg's bare chest and small mouth parted slightly. One of his little hands was balled in a fist and glistened with the drool it was covered in. It was clear the child had fallen asleep with his fist in his mouth, and it had slipped out as he fell deeper asleep.

Mycroft smiled, utterly smitten with the sight. He was unable to resist pulling out his mobile and taking a picture, before quietly making his way over towards them. Dear Oliver had begun teething a month prior, so he had been doing quite a good job at keeping both his fathers up all night with him. The poor boy had been restless, refusing sleep and food, because he just _hurt_. It seemed that the exhaustion had caught up with them both today.

Crouching down, he reached out and ran his slender fingers through Greg's silvery hair. The older man stirred slightly, brow furrowing in confusion and brown eyes fluttering open sleepily. He smiled as he registered Mycroft beside him, biting back a yawn and shifting very carefully.

"Hey," he whispered groggily. Mycroft smiled in adoration at him. "Ollie finally got tuckered out."

"I see that," he responded in kind, eyes shifting to glance at their sleeping son without stopping the soothing strokes to Greg's hair.

"Got 'im to eat a bit around lunch time," Greg reported, splaying out his hand along Oliver's back securely as the boy shifted in his sleep. He sighed, letting out a little noise that shot right into both men's hearts. Mycroft had never known a more adorable baby, and it didn't matter that he was slightly biased.

"Good. We'll try for dinner in a while. Perhaps he'll get a full night's rest this evening."

"One can hope," Greg snorted, yawning. The movement caused Oliver to shift again, his little brow furrowing a bit as he unclenched and clenched his fist again. Mycroft reached down to gently brush a strand of jet-black hair out of his face, and then rubbed his thumb across a chubby cheek.

"For now, we'll let him sleep a bit longer." Normally they would want him awake so he could actually sleep that night, but with as little sleep as he was getting during the teething process, any sleep was good sleep. Leaning in, he pressed a loving kiss to Greg's forehead, who smiled and hummed softly.

"Have a good day?" the older man asked. Mycroft sighed.

"It was to be expected. It is better now that I'm home, with you and Oliver. I'm going to go make some tea. Then we'll see about his dinner." He pressed another kiss to Greg's forehead before standing, gazing fondly at their sleeping child, and heading towards the kitchen for his tea.


	62. Day 62: Dancing Lessons

This was rather embarrassing. Greg had been torn about even approaching Sherlock about this, and once he'd decided he was going to, he dreaded actually going over to Baker Street and having the conversation. He started to put it off for as long as he could, but finally, he had to bite the bullet and go for it.

This was how he ended up in the sitting room of Baker Street in the middle of the day, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as Sherlock was moving around furniture to give them a more open space. John was at the clinic, so they were alone, thankfully. This was going to be bizarre enough on its own.

"I still don't quite understand," Sherlock was admitting, glancing over at him curiously. "You've been married before, how is it you don't know how to dance?"

"It was… not that great of a dance," Greg huffed, crossing his arms defensively over his chest and staring at the skull hanging on the wall. He'd been absolutely rubbish at it and his wife had led the entire time. He knew people had only been nice about it because it was his wedding day.

"Well, it's honestly not that difficult," Sherlock said, finishing his adjustments with the coffee table and then walking over to where he had an iPod dock set up on his desk. Greg was a little surprised he wasn't giving him more shit about the entire situation. But he knew the detective really loved dancing, so… Perhaps that was why. He couldn't remember the last time he'd appreciated John's tipsy admissions more. "Take your shoes off and get over here."

Greg nodded, toeing his shoes off and walking over to where Sherlock was standing. He squared his shoulders and allowed the younger man to grab his arms and position them appropriately, one wrapped around his torso and the other in his hand. Behind them, slow music began playing, and Sherlock nodded slightly before starting to move.

They stepped, and Greg stumbled a few times, but overall it wasn't a huge disaster. Sherlock was muttering through it almost constantly, instructing him this way and that. They did this throughout the length of the song until it faded out.

"Now this time, you're going to lead," Sherlock commented, moving to restart the song. "It is most likely my brother will lead, because he's a control freak like that, but just in case, we need to get you at least sub par."

Greg opened his mouth to complain at the casual Sherlockian insult, but he knew he was right so he remained quiet. Instead, he just nodded. This time, his hand was shifted down to rest along Sherlock's waist, and their joined hands shifted some before joining again. The music started. Sherlock muttered to him to take the first step, and after a moment of hesitation, he did so.

They switched back and fourth a few times, and after a while, Greg started to feel a lot better about the entire situation. He was getting more comfortable with the movements, taking a few liberties (some that were agreeable, others that got him Sherlock's normal 'you can't honestly be serious' face), and trying a few new things at the younger man's suggestion. It was surprisingly fun. It was also a fascinating side of Sherlock he was seeing. John had been right when he said the detective liked dancing. They were actually laughing together, and it was rare to see Sherlock so jovial when John wasn't around (and even then it was still rare).

It was in that moment that Sherlock heard footsteps on the stairs. He glanced over Greg's shoulder and his smile faded almost instantly, halting them. Greg blinked in confusion and turned to look over to see Mycroft standing behind them, an envelope in his hand. The politician was standing straight, face practically blank, but there was something there Greg could read that caused him to let his mouth drop open to talk and step away from the younger Holmes.

"Apologies for the _interruption_," Mycroft said icily. "I was stopping by to bring you information on this case, Sherlock. I'll just leave it in the kitchen and be on my way."

Mycroft spun on his heel and moved to walk into the kitchen, dropping the file loudly and then leaving. Sherlock snorted, turning off the music and dropping into his chair. Greg sighed.

"Mycroft," he called out, going after him. It didn't matter that he didn't have shoes on, as he started to make his way down the stairs. Just barely did he catch the other man's elbow before he'd walked out onto the street and tugged him back.

"Gregory, I need to get back to work. Do let go," he commanded without turning around. Greg sighed and stepped forward to press against him, wrapping his arms around the taller man's waist.

"Stop being ridiculous," he whispered, hugging him tightly. "What you saw was absolutely nothing."

"What I saw was you dancing with my brother."

Sighing, Greg grabbed Mycroft and turned him around so they were facing each other. He reached up to cup his cheek, gazing into his eyes.

"He was teaching me," he admitted, feeling heat rising in his cheeks. Mycroft blinked, beginning to follow his train of thought. Greg could see the slight realization dawning in his eyes.

"Yes," Greg nodded, smiling. "I'm a doofus who doesn't know how to dance. I wanted to learn, before we… Well. I wanted to be good at something."

"You are good at many things," Mycroft whispered, his voice loosing its ice and growing very affectionate. Leaning in, he connected their lips in a brief kiss. "My apologies for creating a scene."

"You didn't create a scene," Greg huffed a laugh against his lips. He reached and took Mycroft's hand, threading their fingers together and squeezing. "You have time for lunch before you have to go back to the office?"

"Yes, I suppose we can squeeze something in," Mycroft smiled, kissing him again. Greg ran back to get his shoes, and together they walked out onto the pavement.


	63. Day 63: Tea With The Queen

Greg relaxed in the back of the car that was currently taking him from the Yard, to what appeared to be Buckingham Palace. Yes, that thought was confirmed a little bit later as they pulled up in front of the palace and the door was opened for him to step out. He did so, straightening his coat and sighing to himself, before wandering inside behind a silent escort.

He hadn't gotten a notice about a new security check, but those did tend to crop up out of nowhere sometimes. That was kind of the point about security checks, really. If there was no time to prepare for them, there was no time to fabricate anything. He was grateful to get pulled away from the paperwork, anyway.

He was led to a room with two couches and four chairs surrounding a large coffee table. The quiet man gestured to the seating, and he nodded and sat on one side of the couch. The man left without another word, leaving him alone in the eerily quiet room. Shifting he glanced around warily. This was not normally the kind of setting these checks took place in, nor was he ever made to wait on his own like this. It was… kind of bizarre.

He was alone in the room for about ten minutes or so, before a different man walked in. He blinked, glancing over at him and taking in his crisp suit, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Second," the man announced, stepping to the side of the doorway. Greg froze. _What?_ He wasn't lying, however, because moments later the Queen herself was walking into the room. Greg was up on his feet faster than he thought he could move anymore, and tilting his torso in a respected bow. His heart was pounding. This was definitely no ordinary security check. What was happening?

"Please, do sir Detective Inspector," she addressed him politely, making her way over to him and sitting in one of the chairs. He nodded dumbly, moving to sit back down and trying not to let his jaw drop. He was in the presence of the Queen. Sitting right next to her. He watched, dead silent, as she requested the man to bring them tea. It was also the fastest prepared tea he'd ever witnessed. That, or he was still so dumbfounded that everything was blurring together. Before he knew what was happening, there was a cup and saucer in his hand, and he was having tea with the Queen.

The thought didn't sound right, no matter how often he thought it. He was having tea _with the Queen_.

"Do you know why I have brought you here today, Inspector?" she asked civilly after a few moments. Greg blinked, setting his cup down, and shaking his head.

"I have to admit, ma'am, I do not. To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked. His heart was beating so fast he thought he was going to forget how to breathe.

"I wanted to discuss the nature of your relationship with Mycroft Holmes," the royal woman began to explain. Greg had to force his jaw to remain closed again. He also had to keep himself from chuckling at the statement. It sounded ridiculously like Mycroft had the first time he had basically kidnapped and interrogated him about his involvement with Sherlock. It was kind of hilarious.

"Our relationship, ma'am?" he inquired, making sure he understood her correctly. So his partner did know the Queen personally. How else could this conversation be explained?

"Indeed. It has come to my attention the two of you are going to be getting married in a matter of weeks," she explained, sipping on her tea elegantly. Greg blinked, but said nothing. He nodded, which prompted her to continue her thought. "While I am aware of the good work you do for this city, we have never met in person. I wanted to make sure that you were the right man for him."

Wait. Was the Queen really interrogating him? Yeah. She was most definitely examining him before he and Mycroft got married. It was such… a motherly thing to do. He had no idea the two of them were this close. After all, the Queen wouldn't just have this conversation with the soon-to-be-spouse of anyone in the British Government. He couldn't imagine so, anyway.

"I love Mycroft very much, Your Majesty," he said, smiling. "He has changed my life very much for the better, and I am reminded every day just how lucky I am to have him."

As he spoke, he saw her begin to smile over her teacup. That was a good sign. It eased his nerves slightly. With momentary pauses, and a refill on both their teas, they continued to talk about Mycroft, and their relationship. Then, she moved on to discuss some things with their wedding. It ended up becoming quite a comfortable, lovely visit.

It was also one of the most bizarre days Greg had ever had in his life.


	64. Day 64: Scars

"This one's from the man who kidnapped Sherlock, right?" Mycroft asked softly one night. Greg was lying on his back, eyes closed as they relaxed in bed together. They were relaxing post-sex, letting the soothing high of it all wash over them.

"Hmm?" he hummed, lifting his head a bit. He could feel Mycroft's fingertips running lightly across his ribs, and realization dawned on him. "Oh, yeah. The knife he carried."

Mycroft didn't respond. Instead, his fingers kept running back and fourth over the scar that had marked his tan skin. Greg could still remember that night rather vividly. Sherlock's kidnapped had been light on his feet, getting into Greg's personal space quicker than he could react, brandishing a jagged knife and stabbing him. It had put him in the hospital for almost a week and given him stiches, and had marked him very permanently. Not a fun experience.

After a moment, Mycroft was nudging his shoulder. Complying, Greg shifted, rolling to lie on his back instead. He watched as the younger man's sharp eyes gazed over his torso, fingers following, to a scar on his bicep.

"And this was a bullet wound," he muttered. Greg nodded, glancing as his lover traced it as well. That had happened on one of his first intense cases, ending in chasing a perp they didn't know was concealing a gun. He'd caught sight of it at the last second, diving out of the way enough that it just scraped his bicep instead of almost hitting him square in the chest. Mycroft moved on.

"This one?" he asked, brow furrowing, as he traced a line right above his eyebrow. Greg couldn't help but chuckle.

"Rugby match when I was seventeen. My best mate was rubbish at aiming, and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time." He rolled his eyes. That was definitely the most ridiculous of the markings he carried with him.

Mycroft examined and lightly touched two more scars that were results of bullet wounds: one on his thigh and the other on his stomach. Next was one on his palm from where anger had gotten the better of him and he'd shattered a drinking glass by slamming it down too hard on his desk. He remained quiet, apart from the small conversations that came along with each marking, intently observing the younger man's face during it all.

"What's wrong?" he finally asked, tilting his head sideways. Mycroft sighed through his nose.

"The human body is terribly fragile," he commented, not quite answering the question. Stroking Greg's chest, he lowered his head onto the pillow with a soft frown on his face. Greg shifted his body a bit so they were facing each other more, wrapping his arms around him.

"Perhaps. But I'm incredibly lucky, too," he commented, throwing on a smile. It surprised him how bothered he seemed to be by Greg's scarring.

"Naturally, and for that I am grateful," Mycroft said. "However, that doesn't change the fact that these are indications of more than one time that I could have lost you, some before I ever got the chance to know you."

Greg's brown eyes softened immensely. So _that_ was what was really bothering him. He rubbed Mycroft's back soothingly, leaning to kiss his forehead.

"But they didn't," he whispered. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Mycroft shut his eyes, letting his long arm snake around Greg's waist as he curled into his side.

"It is a foolish train of thought, and pointless. Because you are, as you say. You are right here. My apologies if I killed the mood."

Greg hugged his lover tightly, nuzzling into his hair and smiling.

"You didn't," he reassured Mycroft. "There's nothing for you to apologize for. I'd be the same if they were on your body. It happens when you're in love."

"I would very much appreciate it if you did not acquire any more, Gregory," Mycroft said softly, almost fragile. Very uncharacteristic of him, and something that only ever happened in privacy like this.

"I would as well," Greg agreed, reaching up to stroke Mycroft's hair. "And don't worry. I'll do my best not to."

He couldn't promise he never would again. Being a Detective Inspector had the chance to be dangerous. At least now he had even more of a drive not to get injured.


	65. Day 65: Anniversary Dinner

When Greg arrived at the restaurant Mycroft had sent him the address to, he stood there and gaped. He stood there and gaped while a bloody valet boy drove his car to be parked. When he finally forced himself to move and got inside the restaurant, he gaped again. _Christ_ the place was gorgeous. It was huge, and intimidating, and it felt expensive just standing at the entrance. Never in his entire life had Greg stepped foot in a place like this, and his instinct told him to turn right around and leave again.

Greg was not a poor man. He had never grown up in a poor lifestyle. His home life had been comfortable, and sensible. He had been much luckier than many other kids he'd grown up with. But he wasn't rich. Standing in this place that he was now… It didn't feel like he belonged. Nervously, he glanced around. He was meeting Mycroft here, but he had no idea where his partner was in the establishment. It was huge, and lord knows he couldn't be seen wandering around.

"Mr. Lestrade?" came a voice to his left. Blinking, Greg turned to see who had addressed him. It looked to be a waiter, who was waiting expectantly for him. He tried not to feel super embarrassed. Was he really that obvious?

"Yes?" he asked, shifting slightly.

"Please allow me to show you to your table. Mr. Holmes is waiting. May I take your coat?"

With a soft nod, Greg let his coat slip off his shoulders and pulled his mobile out of it before handing it over to the boy. Said boy bowed his head briefly before turning, and motioning for Greg to follow. He did, keeping his eyes forward to wander through the tables, listening to the calm chatter of other people that were dining. Finally, they came to a stop and he blinked, glancing around the boy to see his wonderful husband seated at a table. He smiled politely, and Greg's seat was pulled out for him. He sat, nodding his thanks.

"Thank you, Jeremy," Mycroft was saying. The boy bowed, handed Greg a menu, and departed. Greg let himself slump slightly, glancing down at the menu.

"I trust your day was alright, darling?" Mycroft was asking. Greg was briefly distracted by the fact that the menu _had no prices_ on it. Good lord that wasn't a good sign. He blinked, before glancing up at the younger man.

"Uh, yeah," he smiled, setting the menu down and turning his attention to him. "Jeremy?"

"I am well acquainted with all members of the staff here," Mycroft smirked. Of course he was. Greg was convinced there was no one in London his husband wasn't acquainted with in some form.

"How was your day?" Greg asked in response, moving on.

"It was as to be expected."

Greg reached and picked up a glass of wine, swirling it slightly and taking a sip. It was good. Mycroft was looking at him in an extremely amused way, his blue eyes shining.

"What?" he asked, feeling self-conscious. Mycroft chuckled.

"Do relax, darling. You belong here just as much as I," he said knowingly, folding his hands on the table in front of him.

"There's no prices on this menu," Greg pointed out, taking another drink. Mycroft nodded.

"There is not. Don't worry about price, dear. Just find something that sounds delicious."

"Don't worry about price?" Greg blinked. "Myc, I bet a dinner here costs more than my paycheck."

"Of course, don't worry. This is my treat."

"Oh no. No, I can't let you do that…" Greg sighed, waving a hand in front of him.

"Nonsense, Gregory," Mycroft said dismissively. He gave the older man that pointed look that let him know he was losing this one. "It is our anniversary, dear. This is one of my gifts to you."

Greg blushed, glancing down at his wine. It was true, he hadn't expected their first wedding anniversary to be spent at a place like this. He couldn't help but feel a bit doted on, though, and in a way… It was nice. He smiled, taking another drink, before leaning over and taking another look at his menu again.

"So. What's good here?" he asked, grinning.


	66. Day 66: Attempt At Comfort

Greg couldn't get in a better mindset. Christ. Never in his life would he have figured Sherlock Holmes to commit suicide. But there they were… He had jumped off St. Bart's, pronounced dead an hour later, and there was a funeral service being arranged. He was floored. He was having an immensely difficult time to adjust to the chain of events, which was being even more difficult because the press wasn't leaving him alone about it.

He'd barely seen John. Oh _John_. He couldn't even imagine how the doctor was handling it. He'd been there. He'd seen him… Greg couldn't begin to imagine how something like that must have felt. Had the roles been reversed, and he had witnessed something like that with Mycroft… The mere thought of it made it difficult for him to breathe.

Speaking of, he was on his way over to Mycroft's currently. He'd barely had a chance to see his boyfriend since it had happened, with everything he'd been swarmed with. He knew Mycroft was arranging the funeral, because who else could?

"Mycroft?" he called out as he entered the politician's home. No response. Greg sighed through his nose and stepped inside, hanging up his coat and beginning to walk though in search of him. Finally, he found the man in his study. He was staring over papers with a cup of tea in his hands. Greg's brown eyes softened as he made his way over.

"Hey," he whispered, reaching out to squeeze Mycroft's shoulder gently. It was only then that pale blue eyes were raised to meet his. Greg had expected something different than what he saw. Mycroft might not be an over emotional person, but he let his guard down around Greg. He knew how much the older Holmes really did love his brother. Yet… he seemed perfectly fine.

"Gregory, what brings you by?" he asked, voice even. He set his teacup down and turned in his chair so they were better facing each other. On the desk was a series of newspapers reporting Sherlock's suicide, and more documents that he spotted both Sherlock and Moriarty's names on. Greg blinked.

"Coming to check on you. With everything that's happened… You okay?" he asked leaning down to press a kiss to Mycroft's forehead. The younger man hummed and shut his eyes briefly, before nodding.

"I am fine. _Really_," he added as Greg gave him a slightly skeptical look.

"I just… I know with everything with Sherlock…" he started, shifting his weight. It was still difficult for him to actually speak about it. He sighed and glanced down, shutting his eyes for a moment.

Mycroft said nothing, but instead reached out with slender arms and tugged Greg close, pulling him down on his lap. Greg opened his eyes again in shock, but moved to wrap his arms around his partner's neck and lean close.

"Everything will be fine," Mycroft said, rubbing Greg's back. Licking his lips, Greg pressed his face in the crook of his pale, slender neck, shutting his eyes again. What felt like an unsettling, raging war inside of him (anger, sorrow, grief, blame), began to calm. Before long, his body was slumped against Mycroft's taller one.

"How is it," Greg said finally, voice cracking. "That I come here to comfort you and end up getting comforted myself?"

"It is just the way things occur," Mycroft said, a slight tone of amusement in his voice. Greg lifted his head and they shared a gentle kiss, pressing closer to each other. He hummed into it, running his fingers through the younger man's silky hair.

"Would you be able to stay tonight?" Mycroft asked, brushing the tips of their noses together. Greg nodded.

"Yeah. I don't need to go home for anything."

"There are a few things I need to set up for the funeral, and then perhaps we can have dinner."

Greg nodded. Dinner sounded great. Staying with Mycroft would make him feel better. It already was. And perhaps, if the occasion rose, he'd be able to finally offer the same comfort and companionship he had planned on offering as he'd first stepped into the door. Mycroft was an enigma that Greg was still trying to sort through, but no matter what, he would be there for the older Holmes through this difficult time.


	67. Day 67: Ever The Matchmaker

The first time Mycroft had received a call that his baby brother had been arrested, he had been far from surprised. Sherlock, in his infinite boredom, had decided that cocaine was the only fascinating thing in his life, and to say he had become an addict was a kind way of putting it. So he excused himself from a not-so-important meeting and made his way down to New Scotland Yard to bail him out.

The arresting officer had been Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Apparently, Sherlock had wandered onto his crime scene high as a kite (the Inspector's words, not Mycroft's own), and had deduced everything about him, his Sergeant, and the body. Unsurprising. Mycroft kept up his formalities, bailed his addict of a brother, and took him home.

"You like him," Sherlock said after almost an entire car ride of silence. Mycroft turned and regarded him with a raised eyebrow.

"I am sure I have no idea what you mean," he said smoothly, making sure to look extremely uninterested. Sherlock snorted.

"You. **Like.** Him."

"And you, brother mine, are high."

The next time the good Detective Inspector called him, it was because Sherlock had been caught breaking and entering. Unlike other times where he very much broke the law, Lestrade had not been the first on the scene. As the politician stood in front of the DI, he pinched the bridge of his nose in his irritation, politely apologizing for his infuriating little brother taking up so much of his valuable time. The older man seemed to shrug it off, which in Mycroft's opinion was much too forgiving, but… It was also endearing. Bowing his head again, he turned and practically drug Sherlock out by his ear.

"You like him _so much,_ it's ridiculous," Sherlock was saying in the car. "It's as clear as the nose on your face."

"Dear lord, are you still high?"

"No," Sherlock sniffed, tilting his chin up and crossing his arms. "I've been clean for months, Mycroft."

That made him pause. Sherlock was…clean? He hadn't heard of any transgressions in a while, but he hadn't thought much of it. It all made sense now, though.

"Get bored with cocaine, finally?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"No, but Lestrade refuses to let me help with crime scenes if I'm using…" the younger Holmes mumbled, staring out of the window. Mycroft had to consciously think in order to not let his jaw drop. The Detective Inspector was the reason Sherlock was no longer using. That man was a lot more of an enigma than he had originally anticipated. Interesting.

It continued like this. Sherlock continued to get himself arrested, and Mycroft continued to show up and post his bail. It was exhausting. However, as irritating as it was, Sherlock was right. Mycroft did like DI Lestrade. The man was fascinating, and while he looked up a bit and could look up more, he found he didn't want to. For once in his life, he wanted to find out from the other man, not from his files.

So each time he came to bail Sherlock out, he and Lestrade talked. None of the conversations were usually anything of import, but that didn't matter. Whether Mycroft already knew what the other man was going to talk about or not, he let him talk. His brown eyes were bright and sincere, and his grin was practically infectious. While he always kept a cool exterior, Mycroft felt giddy inside. It was ridiculous, but he did. Each time, Sherlock watched him smugly as they left, and each time, Mycroft pointedly ignored him.

"Look, I'm done. You bail him out," came a phone call from a very irritated John Watson one day. Rolling his eyes at his ridiculous brother, but feeling a fluttering excitement inside of him, Mycroft made his way to the Yard.

"Ah, Mycroft," came Lestrade's warm greeting. "Wondered when you'd get here. How's the chess game?"

"It is fine," Mycroft smiled, leaning his elbows on the counter to fill out the bail forms he was all too acquainted with by this point. "What is he in for now?"

"Pissed off a copper who was already having a bad day," the DI shrugged, leaning sideways on the counter next to him. Mycroft didn't miss the way his hip jutted out slightly.

"Why am I not surprised…" Mycroft sighed. He paused in the paperwork, before glancing over at the older man and feeling a brave streak running through him. "You know, I have half a mind to leave him in there for a while."

"Yeah?" Lestrade asked, raising his eyebrows in curious shock. "And do what?"

"Take you to lunch, perhaps?" he invited nonchalantly. The DI blinked, before breaking out in that huge grin that made Mycroft's knees want to melt.

"That sounds like a great idea."

"Where would you like to go, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft asked, abandoning the paperwork and pushing off the counter.

"Please. Call me Greg," he said, before shrugging. "I'm up for wherever."

"Very well, Gregory. Follow me."


End file.
